Move baby, find pot and spoon, distract. He drums. I pick up where I left off. Silverware. Stacking bowls, plates, into the cabinet. She wanders in, finds her own pan and spoon and begins drumming along. Listen for the sounds, baby boy, little girl making music.
The time slips. Dishwasher half full of clean is closed. Christmas gifts brought up. Artwork saved for months laid across the table. Time to wrap. She picks the paper for each gift. Tape lots of tape. Giving heart blesses with the work of her hands. Anticipating the ripping, unwrapping, joyful. For every gift an ornament or two, their initials cut from applesauce dough. For the giving heart must give.
I checked my Facebook account. I think over my comments. I see bloggers with comments and friends with big lives with interesting things happening, and I am jarred by the smallness of my life. Dishes, and children, and dog. Laundry, and dinner, and husband. Doesn't seem to make me all that interesting. I can't get the cards done for fear of nothing to say. No one wants to hear from me anyway, my boring life.
Baby boy scales her chair and makes getting her feet his goal. Frustrated she ,stomps, and growls. The clock reminds me that it is time for a nap. Girl wails wanting to continue. It is time for a break. You are frustrated and tired. We will finish wrapping the gifts when you wake up and after we've gone outside. I take her to her bed and plop her in. Going to retrieve the napping blanket, I scoop the babbling crawler off the floor. He goes to his bed, pacifier in place, covered rolls over. Snuggling down into the napping blanket, she holds tight to me for Jesus Loves Me. Now they sleep.
I write. I've come to a place where the words I have next aren't words I want to write. I am embarrassed by them. For no matter how much I love this family, I am intimidated by the lives of others, because I am unimpressed with my own calling. I don't really believe that my mothering is that important for them. I believe I should be doing better, greater things.
Soon she will wake and trot to find me. Lifting her arms she will want to rest in mine till she is fully awake, planning her afternoon. Soon, he will rouse and I will hear him chewing on that pacifier. When I walk into the room, he will bounce and raise his arms. Smiling to be lifted out of bed, ready to find something else to study.
And I will continue, dinner, dishes, picking up and putting away, dog in and out, husband home. Maybe the mitts to finish. Perhaps the homeschooling book to read. It is a far cry from the plans of medical missions I had when entering college, or the change the world teacher I was trained to be leaving college.
Now, I am concerned with organic milk, cooking from scratch, and making baby food. We watch documentaries. I read parenting books. I write a silly blog few people read.
Maybe mother isn't an apology. What if I could learn to say, I'm a mom. without needing to use the tone, or without needing to add the other things I do?
But today, I'm not feeling it.