Mi Pobrecito Corazón
I've done it 12 times before. More, if you count trips to and from the university dorm as some people do. I'm no stranger to the sorting. Organising. Folding. Stacking. Cleaning. Tossing. Rearranging. Wrapping. Packing.
It's like a real-life game of Tetras, and I'm rather an expert, if I may say so myself. 12 times in 23 years gives a person a fair amount of experience. I'm so used to the packing, the goodbyes, the "one-last-times," that it almost feels routine. Normal. It's always hard, but that's standard.
This time, it's a little bit different though. Because there are 18 little human beings who have each taken a good sized chunk out of my heart.
This is not normal. This is not a part of the routine. I don't know what to do.
A little smiling face pops out over the side of the crib, quickly followed by a pair of short arms and a cry of "'Rena!" as one of our baby boys wakes up from his nap. And a piece of my heart falls out.
One of our toddlers sings me her "Lauren song" through the door while she's on the potty. And through my laughter, I lose another piece of my heart.
A little girl pauses her playing to run over, give me a hug, tell me she loves me, and then quickly "style" my hair before returning to her toy car. She takes a piece of my heart with her.
It's quite a conundrum.
I've often been sad to leave a place. Even, 'heart broken.' But I don't know if I will ever have left so much of my heart in one place. Every hug, silly smile, proud high-five... they all take a little bit of it. I hope hearts grow back.
It's not because I worry for them after we leave. I don't doubt their safety and happiness will carry on and grow even after I'm long gone. I know they will absolutely thrive, with or without me. The trouble is, I don't know what I'm going to do without them.
At my time at Roots & Wings now, I'm torn between wanting to completely avoid them to somehow isolate myself and soften the blow, and wanting to spend all my waking hours with them. It's a struggle of balance. And with only days left here in Mazatlan, it's a struggle that only grows stronger.
And yet, I feel this peace, that I really don't understand.
I know the kids will be in good, I think better, hands after I leave. And I feel certain that our leaving is the right decision. I do very much feel at peace about it.
Even as I wonder if I will ever get those pieces of my heart back.
It's like a real-life game of Tetras, and I'm rather an expert, if I may say so myself. 12 times in 23 years gives a person a fair amount of experience. I'm so used to the packing, the goodbyes, the "one-last-times," that it almost feels routine. Normal. It's always hard, but that's standard.
This time, it's a little bit different though. Because there are 18 little human beings who have each taken a good sized chunk out of my heart.
This is not normal. This is not a part of the routine. I don't know what to do.
A little smiling face pops out over the side of the crib, quickly followed by a pair of short arms and a cry of "'Rena!" as one of our baby boys wakes up from his nap. And a piece of my heart falls out.
One of our toddlers sings me her "Lauren song" through the door while she's on the potty. And through my laughter, I lose another piece of my heart.
A little girl pauses her playing to run over, give me a hug, tell me she loves me, and then quickly "style" my hair before returning to her toy car. She takes a piece of my heart with her.
It's quite a conundrum.
I've often been sad to leave a place. Even, 'heart broken.' But I don't know if I will ever have left so much of my heart in one place. Every hug, silly smile, proud high-five... they all take a little bit of it. I hope hearts grow back.
It's not because I worry for them after we leave. I don't doubt their safety and happiness will carry on and grow even after I'm long gone. I know they will absolutely thrive, with or without me. The trouble is, I don't know what I'm going to do without them.
At my time at Roots & Wings now, I'm torn between wanting to completely avoid them to somehow isolate myself and soften the blow, and wanting to spend all my waking hours with them. It's a struggle of balance. And with only days left here in Mazatlan, it's a struggle that only grows stronger.
And yet, I feel this peace, that I really don't understand.
I know the kids will be in good, I think better, hands after I leave. And I feel certain that our leaving is the right decision. I do very much feel at peace about it.
Even as I wonder if I will ever get those pieces of my heart back.
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