Conviction is such a strong word, but I don’t know how else to say it. I have been convicted to start writing again. I’m getting clammy just writing that. There has been a still small voice persistently at my ear for the past several weeks. I thought that maybe He just felt bad for Mae baby and the fact that she didn’t have a baby book or a birth story, so I knocked that out, and…He hasn’t left. What He wants me to write exactly, I don’t know, but I feel too out of practice to jump back into my book and–even though I tried to tell Him that nobody reads or writes blogs anymore–He didn’t seem to care. Here is where He has led me to start, and most specifically, setting my alarm for 5 am so that I could write something before our crazy world begins.
I was disobedient all last week. I kept pointing out to Him that Jay Paul was sick and waking up in the night. This week I argued that an 8 week old still counts as a newborn, and surely I need more rest than waking up at 5 ON PURPOSE. So I scrolled to the number 6 on my phone alarm clock, and I laid it defiantly on my bedside table… He came back with that nagging in my heart about obedience, and life with purpose, communion with Him, and blessings forgone, and even “Why do you think I gave you a baby that started sleeping through the night at 4 weeks old?”
And so, with the thought of the perfect wonder of a newborn He has given me in Mae baby, I snatched up my phone and reset it for 5 am.
So here I am. And here is MyMae, or Mae Baby, or MaeWeather–we call her lots of things in our various states of rapt adoration. She is cooing and smiling…
Her generally state is going with the flow of the chaos of life in this house, but when we do stop to talk and smile with her, she always answers back with the most grateful attention.
And I want to swallow her whole. I wish I could sit with her all day long–talking, smiling, and watching her sleep. But this guy would never allow it:
He is bad right now. B. A. D. Testing all his limits, and nearly suffocating Mae in his need to hold her and be close to her. While Mae makes me wonder why we don’t have 15 babies, Jay Paul is a constant reminder of why that would be an awful idea. While he is hard, he also holds that spark–a sweetness and vibrancy and energy and mischief–that makes you love him to pieces even as he bangs his milk cup on the floor until he pops the spill-proof stopper out.
Then there’s these two. My helpers, my friends, my psychodelic dance partners around the house. A constant reminder that the baby stage, and the terrible two’s both fly by equally fast.
While I’m nervous to proclaim it, because I know how hard it was to set the alarm last night, I think I’m bbbback.