What is it about motherhood that breaks your heart into millions of tiny little pieces and scatters them all over the floor?
A few nights ago, I found myself with a couple of uninterrupted hours and it was glorious. I went to a coffeehouse, wrote, researched, then I went home, fed my baby, put him to sleep, ordered the next size of his diapers, and went to bed. And that's when an arrow suddenly penetrated the center of my heart.
Why is he growing up? Why can't he stay a little boy, a little baby forever? In the course of one week, he has outgrown most of his 3 month clothes, moved out of his bassinet, and now he needs the bigger diapers. How am I supposed to handle this? Motherhood is an entirely new kind of heartbreak. Every day, he will need me less and less, until he grows up and walks out the door, moving on with his life. Why must it happen this way? Every time I look at him sleeping, or watch his mouth grow into a gummy grin, I get this inexplicable feeling of my insides vaporizing and floating onto the ground. It tears me apart. I think it's because, even as I cherish these moments, I see him growing before my very eyes, growing up and away. I want to bottle up each smile, each sound, and store it right beside my heart, no, inside my heart, forever. But there just isn't enough room! And so the pieces of this joy are just left scattered on the floor, trailing behind me everywhere I go. Do you see what I mean?
This advent season, as I celebrate the birth of Jesus, I also mourn with Mary, who too "treasured up all these things in her heart" as she watched her sweet baby boy grow up and away. Poor Mary, with all the pieces of her mother heart scattered on the floor.