I gave birth three times this week. It was only in my dreams, but still it seems odd considering how long ago my last births were. Babies were the epicenter of my life for twenty some years, including a family bed, attachment parenting, and extended breastfeeding. But those precious and exhausting days are gone, and it surprises me that newborns showed up again in my nocturnal musings. 

The sensation of a downy head under my chin was vivid, as was the muscle memory of walking slowly to avoid waking her. People softened when I came into the room, as they do in the presence of innocence. I woke up to the reality of my advanced age, and the absurdity of me being responsible in that way again. 

It does seem confusing to me, this arrangement of carefree childhood, intense duties in parenting, slacking off to the retirement years. I suppose God's style has never included monotony, so the ebb and flow makes sense. But sometimes I wish I could pack an afternoon nap and mail it to one of my own daughters, whose sleep is truncated. 

I find the capacity of young children to engage in life enchanting. They do not yet share the worry that will be a constant partner while raising a family, nor do they busy themselves with reflection they way we oldsters seem to. 

"Did I do a good job as a mother?" is a common place of self doubt for women in their sixties. But I have yet to hear a five year old question their ability to play. 

"Maybe that tower of blocks I made wasn't high enough."

The truth is, I am still a newbie. Sixty five is near the starting gate of a life that will extend into eternity. I pray that I can swing back in the direction of grabbing each day with the gusto of a baby just learning to walk.