"If you are still in the process of raising children, be aware that the tiny fingerprints that show up on almost every newly cleaned surface, the toys scattered about the house, the piles and piles of laundry to be tackled will disappear all too soon and that you will—to your surprise—miss them profoundly." -Pres. Thomas S. Monson
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
The blog in which I say that time flies... again.
So much is happening, and not much is happening. Time is escaping me, and yet, I scramble to find what to do with the afternoon. Is it summer? Is it little kids? Is it a 6 year old, or a four year old, or an able-to-still-name-the-days-year-old? I'm not sure. All I know is that in the middle of it all, I am so so happy.
Sometimes someone else's words are better than my own:
Lisa Jo Baker, "The (real life) dictionary definition of a mother."~
"I am stretched and tired and fearful. I am wild and brave and broken. But this one life is on purpose and it’s not by accident where I woke up this morning.
While my closet has a sense of humor and clothes in every size, my story is richer and fuller for it.
I’ve worn these hips around the labor and delivery dance and they are not ashamed.
I have lost it, yelled it, fought it, cried it and apologized it all before 9am.
I have fingerpainted, caffeinated, and run out of explanations for a
line of why questions that stretches around the living room, out the
front door and around the block.
I have tripped on Legos,
stepped on scooters, slept on bottom bunks, and strung yards of white,
twinkling lights to ward off the dark and their bad dreams.
I have been woken up, shaken up, thrown up, loved up, and shut up. I have never quite, completely, ever given up.
Love sleeps in my bed. Curiosity eats at my table. Delight runs laps
around my back yard. Exhaustion is a faithful friend. But so is grace.
If I started tonight and counted backwards all the gifts of this wild
and furious season I would still be counting when the grandchildren were
standing on tippy toes with noses pressed against these same smudged
So I count dimples instead.
And piles of
stray socks and jeans with knees missing and shoes that only fit for a
few months and hair cuts and loose teeth and how many times I look at
them and say with the disbelief of the proud, “I can’t believe how much
I am overwhelmed, infatuated, love struck and
completely unhinged. Especially on the nights they bring in wild flowers
and all the ever-loving mud in the world.
I am full and fulfilled. I am older and comfortable in my skin. I am about the work of raising tiny humans.
I am out of my mind and in my calling and desperate for five minutes alone and a lifetime together.
I want to stop time, tame my fears, bottle their dreams, live a
hundred summers of dripping, sticky, chocolate swirl ice cream. And in
between I hang onto my faith, my temper, and my sense of humor with my
These are the good days, the glory days, the
slow-as-molasses days. These are the fast years, the wonder years, the