Eleven one.

Every night, Mr. Keller and I walk down the hallway. We’ve shut off the lights and locked the doors. I’ve tucked away the toys and swept crumbs off the floor for the twenty-fifth time. The house isn’t always clean at this hour, but it is always quiet. At long last, it’s quiet. 

Without thought, we find ourselves kissing our boys goodnight, one at a time. I breathe them in. I cannot believe how much I love them. I cannot believe my heart can feel so deeply. I think to myself: there is no end. And there isn’t. Of this I am certain.

I feel so aged lately. Often times I wake up and can’t believe the way my entire self has changed in the last five years, even my heart feels different. My face, my chest, my hands. My stomach; striped and scarred. These, the ultimate brands of becoming 'mother'. How sacrificial it is. It’s the sweetest thing in my life.

Five years ago tonight, Jared and I began one journey. Little Morg was on his way into the world. Though he wouldn’t be born for two more days, I have so many distinct memories of those long, laboring hours we spent swaying ourselves, holding each other and crying together. We had no idea who we were back then; no idea of the pain and vulnerability that would unforeseeably accompany the birth of who we would become. Parents, eternally.

You cannot possibly prepare yourself for how frightening it is to love a tiny soul so much you feel you could die. Or how inexplicably grateful you instantly become for God’s hand and plan. And for a Savior. And for the entire experience, even the pain. The pain of giving birth. The pain of being born. The pain (and joy) of losing and finding yourself over and over again along the way. It is miraculous, this journey. Overwhelming, exhaustive and enormously hard. Even so, I am taking this path and I am grateful. I am so eternally grateful to be a mother.