Sunset Days

These are sunset days. Ending days.

They grow short in more ways than one; dawn breaks later, night approaches sooner, but time. It slips through my fingers.

I am trying to take hold of it. To memorize the moments before we are six.

And I have never been more mindful of the moments than tonight, when three hands covered my rounded belly as we sat and read a children's version of David Copperfield.

A sun-browned hand with long, graceful fingers gently pushes back on Little Man's foot as it pushes against my side. My firstborn's amber eyes laugh into mine before he rests his almost-but-not-quite-too-big-to-lay-on-Mama's-shoulder head against mine. The sight of his arms and bare knees, bruised and scraped from hard work and even harder play, make me close my eyes to see again that fragile, vernix-covered body laid on my chest so few years ago... but then I purposefully open my eyes again and look at him, memorize this moment, for right now. For later.

Youngest son, suddenly turned seven, finds Little Man immediately- he has become adept at identifying the presentation and limbs of his brother, and unconsciously rubs circles while he listens intently to the story. He is at that stage, the one where teeth come in large and awkward, making one wonder if his mouth will ever be able to house the teeth still yet to come. His figure eight cowlick, tempered down by damp hands in the morning, has popped up here in the evening as he, too, rests his head against my shoulder. I breathe deep of his little-boy smell, remembering how utterly humongous he seemed when I first brought his little sister home, and the agony I felt at the weight of him compared to her, wondering why it felt so strange to pull my baby boy into my lap with the feather-weight daughter resting on my other arm. Feeling guilty that I would rather dwell on her features and scent, and at my contentedness to let him slip a little further down that apron string, to grow up a bit. I kiss his forehead and vow to treasure cowlicks and sweat and muscles...

An elbow digs into my ribs, but it does't come from inside me! A hand with a slobbery thumb makes a suction-pop sound as it is pulled from my baby's mouth to wrap around my neck, leaving a trail of her sweet saliva on my skin. Suddenly turned little girl, she still cuddles like a baby, but will declare on a daily basis, "I do it myself!" She speaks in complete sentences, but is still dependent on her lovey for bedtime; wants to be carried at the end of long walks but can grip the edge of the dining room table and swing like a monkey to make Daddy laugh. She will be three when I blink again, when this baby-stupor wears off and routine and order are, Lord willing, restored after those first fog-filled weeks. Her fragrant blonde ringlets fill my senses, and I bury my nose in them, unable to read for a moment.

Baby hiccups inside me, reminding me of yet another ending to come... how I love to feel my little ones inside me! My hands subconsciously encircle my belly even after baby comes, as things shift and move back to their place... it is *him*!... I will think, and then blink rapidly as I realize that it is not little one who moves inside me anymore.

These are sunset days. And I am happy, and sad.

I am thankful He understands and makes a way.