I spent most of my morning waiting for this. This is the time when my hands are free, and supposedly my mind, too, to write. As I’m driving to preschool, I’m thinking about what it is that I’m going to say here. While I’m making the peanut butter sandwiches of lunch, one handedly laying the peanut butter thickly on the bread, jiggling the new babe as I go, I’ve got half my mind on this time here. And now that it’s here, I’m not sure where to begin. I have nothing brilliant to say. I have not been struck with amazing insight today. I cannot offer a sweet little story of my Little Ones, or even a funny anecdote to flesh out my family for you. But I know that I need to keep this appointment, here, at my computer. It is my time.
I wasn’t sure that I was going to be able to get this today. Still I’m listening to the Middlest shout jolly songs from her room, but she is happy and occupied, so I smile at her energy, and know that at least Mark will be home this evening to help corral her napless self to bed. The Littlest, Newest Babe of all is still so new that we are trying to figure each other out. Lately that has looked like a lot of time in my arms, and gladly so. His tight body winds around my limbs, and I look into his sleeping face, trying desperately to memorize the way his chin comes to this precious point, and press the quiver of his lips into the creases of my heart for a time long gone. Mostly, these moments of warmth, body against body, are perfect and tender, but if I am unsparingly honest, I confess that sometimes I long for a moment of my own, too. Today, the Middlest needed a bit of attention in the midst of her napping-play, and I had to ooze the Littlest into his swing seat to attend to her. His eyes fluttered, he squirmed himself deep into the seat, and settled back into his comfortable dreamy sleep again. When I returned from the Middlest’s room his eyes still held firm. I had landed my moment with victory.
I take this gift today. And I know it for the gift that it is, because it is set against the backdrop of a tea party, and diaper changes, and water cups refilled. In the setting of jackets on, and laundry sorted, and putting a babe to breast I take this time to let it all wash over me, and into me. There is much here under my care; I am there, too, lest I forget it.
Even today, even forgetting the creative dalliance that I yearn for, the brilliance that I want to impress on you, the picture of perfection, or at least clever living that I want to polish up and offer as an apple for your delight. Even without all that, I still write. For my delight.