"Papa, papa!! Can we wrestle?!!" they call out. It's a daily occurrence, a tradition of sorts. Even the one year old gets involved. He throws them on our bed, and they instantly squeal with joy. "Again! My turn!" they reply. He can't get to each one fast enough for their liking. They flop down on top of the pillows, in a heap of warm, fuzzy, cuddly blankets, and I grin from ear to ear as I look on. Today, I jump onto the bed to participate in the glory of it all. I'm the "tickle monster," and I know just how to make them lose their breath in laughter. They break away and grin the grin of triumph. But I know the routine, they are eager for another round and they could go back and forth for hours. The love in these moments is palpable. Tangible even. As the roar of laughter fills the air, I look over at my husband, smiling and playing with every fiber of his being, and I take it in. Us. Our sweet, beautiful, joy-filled children who desire nothing more but to enjoy this life. And I can't help but join in with them.
This, this, is how I want to remember motherhood. The roar of laughter, the begging for one more round of fun, the sweet innocence of wrestling and tickle fights. This is the joy of raising these three tiny humans. This is the gift of motherhood.
When I tuck them in each night, and trace the sign of the cross on their forehead, kiss them goodnight, I will remember this, and I will hold it in the dearest, most treasured, secret place of my heart.