My baby turns two today.
And number two is on the way any day now.
A pregnant mother can’t get more sentimental than that, on the verge of a new year and a new addition.
As my maternity leave looms, I’m scurrying to finish a big writing project which involves a new program for people in parishes and congregations to reflect on their vocations. One of the questions I created snuck back into my head this morning as I thought about S’s birthday and the baby’s arrival:
When you were a child or a teenager, how did you picture your life would look at the age you are today? What looks the same and what looks different than you imagined?
When I was young, 30 seemed ancient. I could barely conceive of college, let alone life beyond. But I think any passing thought I gave then to my life now went something like this: good husband, good job, maybe a couple of kids.
And as the wonderful imperfection of my life has slowly taken shape, I’m amazed to find that all those big dreams have come true, no matter how hastily and hazily they were sketched at the beginning.
But they never looked like this.
I pictured my firstborn as dark-haired, like F and me. And then he wasn’t. And not a day goes by that I don’t kiss that blond-haired, blue-eyed boy with wonder.
I pictured the road to conceiving his sibling to be as long as the first. And then it wasn’t. And not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for that with wonder.
Already these two have taught me more about surprise and love than I dreamed possible.
So when I think about my life on the verge of two – in more ways than one – I am filled with more wonder than I would have expected. Nothing seems to turn out quite the way I plan, and I could not be more grateful.
Thank God I’m not the one in charge.