I am sitting here, waiting for the words to come. I have started a half dozen posts, but none is coming out the way I want it to. They don’t meet my expectations. I don’t meet my expectations. But it’s NaBloPoMo time. I HAVE to post. It’s my night. The pressure’s on.
The kids are asleep. The house is quiet. I’m feeling a little better–not SO exhausted that I can’t sit still and type. But the IDEAS. Where are the ideas? I can’t just post another poem. A tribute to someone else. A wish for a makeover. I need some real words. Some real feelings. About me. About motherhood. About what it is REALLY like here. Today. Right now.
The thing is, it is just another day, really. And I am grateful for that. The kids are on the mend, I think. The house is a mess. We all have food in our bellies and clean jammies to wear. Nothing at all exceptional happened today. And yet, so many exceptional things happened. The kids went back to school after a week of H1N1. A birthday party invitation arrived for B from a new friend. No one complained about the dinner I made. The baby used a spoon with more success than not.
These are the tiny accomplishments of a day. The tiny accomplishments that add up to learning and growing and becoming–gasp–a real, independent, self-sufficient human being. Someday my children will each be one of these. I can hardly believe it. I don’t want to believe it. To even think that they won’t need me as much as they do now (even though I am overwhelmed by their needs on a daily basis).
I know that the tiny moments are the ones that really count. The kisses blown through the kitchen window as I drive away to go to work. Me helping B put on his socks, not because he doesn’t know how but just because he wants me to. Another art project masterpiece from S, who every day makes something especially with me in mind. These are the moments that I will remember even as they are being replaced by other moments. And I hope they are the moments my children remember, too. Though I know they are too young. They are too busy in their growing and learning to remember the precious times. They remember the big, loud, remarkable events. Holidays. Parades. The day the bear came walking down our street. They remember the GRANDness of things. I remember the tiny feet of the first footie pajamas they each wore. The way B liked to have one arm out of his swaddling blanket, saluting us in his wispy newborn weight.
Every day is full of moments that I know I will forget. The bad and the good. Every day is full of routines. Every day is full of noise and chaos and growing and learning. And at the end of every day I am tired. And right now I just want to be in the other room, curled up next to my sweetie, my partner in this parenting gig. So these words will have to be enough. Some days are not exceptional. Some days I don’t feel terribly inspired to look for the little miracles. Some days it is just enough to get all of the kids in bed and have some time before one of them wakes up again.
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And you thought you had nothing to say. That your words were going nowhere. That you were stuck. If you just start writing, you’ll never be stuck. Beautiful as always my sister. Now go cozy up to J and listen to the peace in your house.
Twitter: Momalom
I know you don’t feel it, but you are enough. xoxo
Sometimes, just another day is just right. And knowing those kids are safe in their beds nearby, just righter.
Twitter: BigLittleWolf
“Some days it is just enough to get all of the kids in bed and have some time before one of them wakes up again.”
Amen sister.
Twitter: millermix