I go days, blissfully unaware of the unfolding around me. I'm caught up in some game. The taxi service to soccer practice, balancing boxes of food in aisles that we may or may not eat, picking out the laundry from a washer to the dryer and baskets full of crumpled heaps. Everything waiting for my next step. Bracing itself against the hum of routine and crossing off checklists. I browse the calendar section of Target three times in one week. I need the best planner. If I don't have it, my whole life will fall apart. I think this over to myself, pacing the white linoleum tiles again and again until I find it. Eventually I do...and it's nothing short of extraordinary. I can plan my hours and minutes...down to the last tedious task. To the cumbersome chore that I'm chained to.
It's 7:15pm and I've finished clearing the dinner plates and setting out the coffee for the next day. In five minutes I should be putting on gloves to start cleaning the bathrooms. This is my Tuesday chore. My body heavy from the work it has already put in, the bed calls my name. I plop down, the socks still on my feet. Just 60 seconds, I tell myself. That is all I need to recharge my depleted soul. Then I can get to the sink tops and toilet scrubbers. I look up and notice a small set of feet padding down the hallway toward my room. I've been caught, I tell myself.
She slides her little body next to mine and puts her arm all the way across my chest. "Mom, I'm going to tickle you." She does, and I laugh because she knows how. My little girl and I have had plenty of tickle fights, and tonight without a second thought, we begin another. She looks over at me once our laughter hits the ceiling fan and scatters into a million pieces, falling all around us like shooting stars. I look at her small face. The girl who I've seen grow into messy hands and loose teeth. The baby I once knew holds her face differently now and I wish to myself that these moments could last forever.
Tears begin to crawl into the tiny corners of my eyes. I gulp down the guilt. A guilt that I cannot shake; that I cannot explain. Am I treasuring all of this enough? Am I a good mother? Am I spending enough time with my kids? Do they know how much I love them?
Silently, I push it down again. Not tonight. The invading insecurities take my breath away. I need air. I cough out loud.
She looks over at me, as if she's reading my thoughts. I've been caught.
Sitting up on one elbow, her grey little eyes bury themselves deep into my being. I breathe her in. I beg for her to be patient with me. That I'm doing the best that I can. That I promise tomorrow I'll be better. Perhaps it just takes more time. More planning. More practice. I'm not perfect, baby. I'll keep trying.
"Mom, do you think it's weird that I like chocolate and I like milk, but I don't like chocolate milk?"
I close my eyes and then let out a deep sigh from places I've never known. I kiss her forehead and whisper to her, "Sweetheart, I think it's wonderful. You keep being yourself, okay?"
We lie next to each other long after I stop counting the second mark ticks on the clock, weaving our hands, our stories, our hearts.
I can't help but think that there's something hanging in the air. Between all the going and being and doing. Maybe this was exactly where I was supposed to be tonight. In a big wide room, with warm hands intertwined. And dirty sink tops.
It's 7:15pm and I've finished clearing the dinner plates and setting out the coffee for the next day. In five minutes I should be putting on gloves to start cleaning the bathrooms. This is my Tuesday chore. My body heavy from the work it has already put in, the bed calls my name. I plop down, the socks still on my feet. Just 60 seconds, I tell myself. That is all I need to recharge my depleted soul. Then I can get to the sink tops and toilet scrubbers. I look up and notice a small set of feet padding down the hallway toward my room. I've been caught, I tell myself.
She slides her little body next to mine and puts her arm all the way across my chest. "Mom, I'm going to tickle you." She does, and I laugh because she knows how. My little girl and I have had plenty of tickle fights, and tonight without a second thought, we begin another. She looks over at me once our laughter hits the ceiling fan and scatters into a million pieces, falling all around us like shooting stars. I look at her small face. The girl who I've seen grow into messy hands and loose teeth. The baby I once knew holds her face differently now and I wish to myself that these moments could last forever.
Tears begin to crawl into the tiny corners of my eyes. I gulp down the guilt. A guilt that I cannot shake; that I cannot explain. Am I treasuring all of this enough? Am I a good mother? Am I spending enough time with my kids? Do they know how much I love them?
Silently, I push it down again. Not tonight. The invading insecurities take my breath away. I need air. I cough out loud.
She looks over at me, as if she's reading my thoughts. I've been caught.
Sitting up on one elbow, her grey little eyes bury themselves deep into my being. I breathe her in. I beg for her to be patient with me. That I'm doing the best that I can. That I promise tomorrow I'll be better. Perhaps it just takes more time. More planning. More practice. I'm not perfect, baby. I'll keep trying.
"Mom, do you think it's weird that I like chocolate and I like milk, but I don't like chocolate milk?"
I close my eyes and then let out a deep sigh from places I've never known. I kiss her forehead and whisper to her, "Sweetheart, I think it's wonderful. You keep being yourself, okay?"
We lie next to each other long after I stop counting the second mark ticks on the clock, weaving our hands, our stories, our hearts.
I can't help but think that there's something hanging in the air. Between all the going and being and doing. Maybe this was exactly where I was supposed to be tonight. In a big wide room, with warm hands intertwined. And dirty sink tops.
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