When the youngest is about to fly a little,
stretch her wings some and branch out,
it is bittersweet.
of deep aching to have those pre-school years all over again.
A disbelief at how quickly those years passed,
nostalgia for the days she babbled like an incoherent brook and poked me with sticky pudgy fingers
always beaming, always smiling, always radiating the purest of joy.
How did we get here?
Sentimental tears risk breaching the tiny well springs in the corners of my eyes at any moment
as I watch her now, fascinated.
The sun drenches her corn gold curls so that they are illuminated like a halo around her
A bow I made hangs across her back,
her little arms milk bottle white and she runs to the back door...
'I love you mum' she says, then scampers off again for more merry mischief.
When I really stop and let the blessing of my children permeate my deepest soul
Time stands still.
Love and purpose pulsate the ether.
I love watching,
just watching them discretely, so that they do not realise I am watching at all.
So busy and blissfully uncaring for time
they are truly living, I mean REALLY living
BEING, human beings.
I muse that once I would have greeted life the very same way,
only indulging each and every moment as it came ... with wonder and imagination,
spontaneous and curious.
I am enchanted,
mesmerised by her every move as I sit here.
She is magic.
I am blessed.