These are the best years of your life, they say. And I get it. They’re absolutely right. Only I think the kicker is I’ll only realize this after the fact. My perception ultimately relies upon the amount of sleep I’ve had. And wether or not we have the ‘good’ coffee. A six hour stint of sleep and a cup of brewed DOMA will change a persons life. Today though, I’m tired.
I’m not sure that I’m enough for my kids. Yet I know that I am. When I’m scrambling between changing diapers and listening to a story and getting lunch on the table- I don’t feel like I am.
Enough-ness: the state of being enough as is, without any additions to the already awesome Creation that is You.
It must be true then that I am indeed enough of a teacher, a nurturer, an artist, a gardener, a cultivator of magic childhood dreams. I pick Hobbs up his atomic fire ball booty calls for cream. He wails in pain. Can I curate the halls of memory lane with glisten and glamour while poop is smeared into the hip bone of my t-shirt? This is the second time today and now I really should change it.
It’s a lovely-awful realization to realize I can’t. And thank God I don’t have to. Reach for the phone. Tell the truth. Give up the ghost of a perfect life/kitchen. Set the timer once today for each of them. A guaranteed 10 minutes of uninterrupted Mom Time. Ugh! No, Mom! That’s NOT how you build The Bear Cave! Pffft.. Just let me do it! Isn’t Mom Time magical?! I kick off my socks because I stepped in something squishy and wet and it’s then that I realize it’s dinner time… Again. This keeps happening.
It happened yesterday and the day before that too. Dinner is so sneaky. Thankfully, my family loves brinner and pizza and no one knows the difference by the time we’re huddled in one twin sized bed singing Christmas tunes. We twist our arms and legs around one another, the four of us, we’re a salted Smith pretzel and our enthusiasm cannot be contained. Bedtime always feels contrary. On one hand I live and die for these tender moments of quiet concentration reading books and brushing thin strands of hair away from their faces, delighting in them and their renditions of Twinkle, Twinkel. The very next breath I’d like to race to the finish line: sweats on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and New Girl. It’s tug o’war on my heart strings. Both are OK.
There’s no ending here. It’s all practice
and progress and never graduating.
Maybe when I’m a Grandma. Maybe that’s Graduation day.