that vulnerability

"One more push."

"It's a boy!"

He is laid in my arms, and I hold for the first time a tiny blanketed body whose face I cannot exactly identify, but whose something I immediately connect to in my own somewhere. He is so tiny. The world is so big. Even in that rather small room he is so stinking small and helpless that if left alone as is he would die in hours.

It is in that moment of acknowledging that very present, awful vulnerability that a certain variety of protection is formed inside me, never to leave. It is that nature of nurturing and protection that I have practiced these mothering years, and now that it is no longer called on to the degree it once was, it doesn't know how to die down. And I don't know how to make it dissipate. I wish it away, but it doesn't seem to fade. There is always a kind of radar beeping round and round, alert to any alien ship or a veering off course or any seeming threat to these kids. I cannot turn it off.

Mothering is the closest thing to unconditional love that I have probably experienced. They can have the middle part of my cinnamon roll. They can forget to take out the garbage for the eighth time. They can use up all the TP and not tell me. They can forget to call and consider me irrelevant as they chase the new day. But the love never turns off. It never fades, fails, or gives up hope. It is ongoing, active, present, productive, and the most vivid thing in my life. It is at once a blessing and a trial. Love costs everything--and it is the only thing worth everything.

"And a sword will pierce your very soul.” ~Luke 2:35 (NLT)