Nova hears with his heart. He speaks my unspoken thoughts, he reads my face like a book, he understands complex problems and always has the simplest compassionate solutions. He is a thinker and a dreamer. Of all three of my children, he has seen me at my worst. He has basically witnessed me growing up. Throughout the years I have become more calm and rational, but on occasion, still tend to lose it. He comforts me and offers me love when I feel at my most unloveable. When I feel everyone else has deserted me, he holds me and tells me things will be alright. He has the spirit and glow of an angel. I have never known one little soul to hold so much love and understanding. The place where these traits hinder him is in the older brother/sibling relationship. He adores his sisters, but strongly wishes that I could be exclusively with him. He enjoys our deep conversations, rocking in the rocking chair, drawing, and making up stories, dancing in my arms, or learning about new things together. His sisters are a blockade. They require a great deal of my attention.

Ayda, my third child, is an easy laid back child. She's rarely bothered. She has this sing songy nature about her. She always hums and babbles. She's the most pleasant baby I've ever had the pleasure to love. As I type this she is sitting in the floor rolling a ball back and forth and clicking her tongue. God knew that third child had to be like this or I would have left long ago.

This past week Ayda and I shared her last bit of warm, sweet milk. Me the maker and she the recipient of a liquid that means more than just sustenance. Nursing takes time out of our busy schedules, nursing takes tolerance, nursing takes a toll on our bodies, beyond that of pregnancy, nursing takes a mother's constant presence and finally nursing takes pillows, a cozy spot, and a lot of cuddling. I am happy that we have moved on to a new phase of our relationship, but this, being my last child, is also sad and I need to take time to acknowledge it. I will never again be the sole source of nutrition and dependance for a baby. I will never again feel the pain, intensity, and empowerment of childbirth. I will never hold up clothing so tiny, fresh from the laundry, and cry at the unbelievability that anything could be so small. I will never again call my husband to share first words or steps. I will never again hold another wet, new soul to my bosom and sigh and cry in awe of the life that myself, my husband, our love, and God created. As much as I want this freedom, this autonomy from my children, I also mourn it.

Those of you that know me know that I often use bad language. I have the supreme potty mouth. Despite my religious or spiritual affiliations, yes, I do often curse. It is one thing I can't stand about myself. I want to be a good example for my children. I want them to know that when anger, frustration, or silliness strikes there's other more articulate ways of expressing it. I have no problem reading blogs that have curse words. There are times and situations where the correct choice of curse word seems to be the cherry on the sundae. For example, when my son was three years old he loved to be spun, flipped, and tickled until tears ran down his face. At our Thanksgiving meal with the in-laws Nova was running in mad circles as his Dad would scoop him up flipping him head over heels in the air and putting him back down still running. Nova laughed and squealed in his sheer delight. Suddenly he stopped, dead in his tracks, and blew large yellow chunks of food all over the floor. They just kept coming in endless streams. When he finished throwing up he looked up at the entire family still gathered around the table and exclaimed,

"what the hell just happened?"

There seemed no better choice of words for that moment, even if they had just escaped the lips of my three year old.

Because I, for the most part, love to deprive my children of modern entertainment like Sponge Bob and anything on PBS, they are often left to their own devices. Here's what you get...