Chubby Little Thighs

I was preparing a roasted chicken for dinner when it hit me.

To be more precise, I was holding the naked chicken's little legs together, crisscrossing them at the "ankles" for tying. And– this is going to sound weird– the legs reminded me of my baby's legs. They reminded me of his chubby little thighs that I love to squeeze, just above the knee to make him giggle. They reminded me of the way he sits with his ankles crossed while he eats or looks at books. I had to apologize to the chicken, because it reminded me of my son.

I know. I'm weird. Sometimes things like this hit me at the strangest times.

But I know that I'm blessed too. I know that motherhood has changed me in ways nothing else could. I'm a better person because of it.

Even if it means that I could never watch movies like 'Grave of the Fireflies' or 'The Boy in the Striped Pajamas' because my heart cannot bear it.

Even if it means that I become a dripping faucet at the thought of abortion, or abandoned babies, or any unwanted child.

Even if it means that I cannot wait to become a grandmother (I know, more weirdness, right?) but what I really, REALLY want to do is become a grandmother to ALL the orphans in the world.

Even if it means that if I do become a grandmother someday (I think I'd like to be called 'Mimi'), and I am roasting chicken for my visiting grandchildren, and I am tying those chubby little chicken legs together, I will have to apologize to the chicken, because it reminds me too much of my baby.

Then again, maybe this will become another blessing. Because from now on, every time I make roasted chicken, I will be filled with the memories of my littlest son, and the warmth, love, and joy he brought into my life. 

And maybe I won't miss those chubby little thighs quite so much.