This is my 411th post, so you’d think it would come with some informaaaaayshun, but nope–just a bit o’ prose before I drag my weary tail to bed. I don’t even know why I’m still up as a matter of fact. Probably because sleeping’s boring.
I think about my young all the time. My wee ones. My babes. My offspring. They are never far from my foremost thoughts and never off my heart. Even when I am tired of them, and even after I snap loudly and grumpily at Aviana, “If you ask me for Goldfish one. more. time, you’re not even going to get them for your BIRTHDAY!”, and even when I am sick of Brielle pulling at me and climbing on me and nursing for a second and memorizing me glowingly with a playful glint in her gaze, but still NOT SLEEPING, I love them with all of my being. To my very core.
Then as if to make up for the hard feelings I still harbor, instead of “indulging myself” by reading one of the four books stacked next to my new chair, I search eBay for cute little outfits, or buy ribbon with the intention of making adorable korkers for their hair, or read about preschool activities to enhance learning. I search slacker moms and read about moms who snap at their kids more than I do, in hopes that it will assuage the guilt I feel or least will give someone to point my finger at and say, “So there, hah. I’m better than you.” But it’s all hollow. We have good moments and bad moments, and they add up to days, and mostly, the bad moments are just the pepper.
If you dump out a cupful of salt onto a piece of white paper, and then shake a teeny bit of pepper onto it, what do you notice? The pepper. Mix it up. Still notice the pepper? Me too. That’s how my bad moments are.
Today I have been my child’s ideal mama: playing rough and tumble games, reading about babies doing the polka and shiny trains, introducing her to bongos and buffalo drums, taking her on play dates, answering endless questions, offering positive reinforcement, discussing the minute and monumental, lavishing affection, hugging, kissing, carrying, nuzzling, loving. I was patient, yet firm, when she yelled at me for taking a bite of her cottage cheese. I was tender, yet serious, when she wouldn’t share with her friends and when she poked them in the face with a toy. I was gentle, yet steadfast, when she screamed for some juice right now. I was kind, yet resolute, at every single crossroads between temper and temperance. Except once.
But it’s just the pepper.
Now, I’m going to go stroke some boa soft cheeks and listen to some deep sighs of breath. I’m going to smell the milkiness and sweatiness that is a sleeping baby. I’m going to corn silk kiss some lips, finger some dandelion strands of hair, pray for their love of Jesus, and mine, to grow in depth and breadth, and thank Him for the salt and the pepper and the opportunity to grow from it, then slide into our burgundy sheets right next to the man of my dreams.
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