Buried under toddlers, I close Are You My Mother for the third time that night. I make a halfhearted attempt to slide them off my lap. It’s been a long day and I don’t think I can utter another word.
“Read ‘gain, mama?” Blue eyes blink up at me behind delicate lashes as I creak open the cover.
A full hour past nightfall on a Sunday, my feet ache, protesting the numbers of minutes I have been standing since I hauled myself out of bed sixteen hours earlier.
Just one more basket of laundry to fold and pile on the couch where it will be abandoned for the week.
Minutes and hours inch along as I fight off tears of anguish and rage. Head spinning. Heart racing. I think a dark whisper of a thought, ‘I can’t make it through even one more day’.
But, light dispels the darkness, and He speaks brightness into the night. Surrender.
The deceptively warm sun of a Minnesota spring filters in through smudged windows. A barefoot toddler in a just-too-small dress triumphantly tosses “oh-nge” peels into the trash.
“I DID IT!” she grins.
Tiny hands clutch a misshapen Batman ball with the reverence of treasures from antiquity. His legs tense in anticipation for the impending leap.
“Ready Daddy?” he asks exuberantly.
Didn’t they just learn to crawl, or in the very least walk? Wasn’t I just regaling in their first words, intelligible only to fine-tuned ear of a mother?
Twilight shadows settle serenely over the cheeks of a boy who is now unmistakably almost eight, blanket pulled tightly to his chin.
Didn’t I just tuck in my baby and now find myself checking in on a near grown boy?
Months and years blink by, in vain I clutch feverishly on to the sweet memories. I lament the dawn in fear as it paints over yesterday with uncertainly, and rain. Will I hold just as dearly any other days?
Gentle peace settles upon me and He calms the interior tempest. Trust.
Too often I think I am in control. Too often I panic when it is revealed to me that I am not. I am struggling precisely because I am trying to do everything on my own. Of my own merits. Of which, frankly, there are few. And in this struggle for control I often lose the beauty of the here and now.
I forget that though the days are long, the years are short, and O how they pass us by.