My hands are full.
Yes they are. I love it when people comment on this. Truly.
As I clumsily walk through the grocery store, with Leyton in her ergo and the big girls walking or in the basket, grabbing boxes of carbs and fruits and veggies mindlessly someone always comments. And kindly lets me pass or go first in line. But such a comment takes me down a path.
In my mind I am thinking, my hands are totally full and not just with groceries and girls.
Full. Full of ponytails and bows, little hands and dirty faces, diapers and wipes, appointments and play dates. There are full days of chaos and laughing and giggling and nights struggling to grasp a routine (for years I mean) with dinner, baths, bedtime, reading. My life is absolutely full. Full of happy days and hard ones. Days that I want to sleep in yet cherish the gift each day presents.
This full life I cherish. The sticky faces and big smiles, mispronounced words and Disney songs, sloppy kisses and bear hugs, communication over baby tears and distinct noises, and observing my growing miracles become amazing people. I will happily struggle through Target or Heb to be reminded of just how full our life is.
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