Sometimes you have to just let them fend for themselves

The kids, I mean. Your kids. The ones who are constantly underfoot. Asking for something. A snack. Help. A story. A solution to their everpresent boredom.
But sometimes you just have to let them fend for themselves. You have to let them fight, keeping an ear out for bloodshed but otherwise staying out of it. Sometimes you just have to make the decision to get something done. So you find the hammer and level. And the picture hangers. And you dust off the photos you’ve been meaning to hang for months. And some, for years. And you just go for it. And the couch pillows are at your feet. You have to scale block towers to get to the wall behind the couch. You have a pencil in your teeth when you hear your daughter yelp. You pause. There are tears. You say nothing. There is giggling. You continue on. You measure. Make a mark. You hang a picture. The one your mother gave you. That hung in your own house growing up. And it looks good. It looks like it belongs there. Why didn’t you do this before?
So you go on. There are ribbons and Tupperware containers all over the hallway. You plod through. You relocate a favorite print, one from your Sweetie, in the days before children. The one that has always been in the dining room. That gets hidden behind the piles of art projects on the bureau it hangs over. You seize it. You hang it over your own bureau. And again. It looks like it belongs.
You are on a roll. The children are hungry. The light is getting dim. But you can’t stop now. You can’t. There are nails in your teeth. You will not put the hammer down. You hang the silhouettes of your children, also from your mother. You hang the other beautiful print from your Sweetie. This one over your bed. You frame photos you’ve been meaning to frame for months. Some for years. You hang them up, too. Set them on the bookshelves.
And then you resume your mothering duties. You break up fights. You fix the couch cushions. You feed the children. Bathe them. Read to them. Clear their bedroom floors enough to make a path from the bed to the door. You give kisses, hugs, wishes for sweet dreams. And you descend the stairs. And admire your work. In the dark shadows of the night. In your home. Where you spent the afternoon fending for yourself. And it looks good.

Tagged as: chaos, day-to-day