Yesterday afternoon, after a long, hot, tiring day, I came home with the kids and found this:
and this:
and similar scenes in every room: a sink filled with dishes, piles of laundry (I spared you the photos) and too much clutter everywhere. Clearly, when we all tore out of the house that morning, a bomb exploded in our absence. It was also one of those afternoons when you come home from the day, tired kids in tow, and discover that somewhere along the way your energy got sucked right out of you and you didn't even notice.
While I sent T. to clean up her room I looked longingly at my bed. It was tempting. I could hear T. chattering away to herself while she restored her stuffed animal collection to all the right places. Usually I cram as many things into a few snatched minutes of downtime as I can. If T. or L. are occupied I've become a pro at multi-tasking: finishing a post, or proofing a column, grading a handful of papers, unloading the dishwasher, even, or checking e-mail. I rarely use the few precious minutes to stretch out on the bed. But yesterday it was tempting. The breeze coming through the windows was too hard to resist. I thought about the afternoon siestas of my childhood, and the long evening of grading papers ahead.
Moments later, of course (kids have a built-in radar--as soon as they sense you have dared lie down in a bed, or picked up a book to read, they are there in a flash), I heard T. come into the room. I peeked through my lids and saw her watching me. She tiptoed over to the bed and clambered up.
"Shhhhh..." she said, to no one in particular. Then she pulled the work shirt I had just discarded (in favor of a cotton tee) over to me and tucked it solicitously around my chin.
"You can nap if you want to, Mama," she told me in a whispery voice when she saw I was smiling at her. And then she stretched out next to me and we chatted, just like two friends, about this and that.
I often get caught up with holding fast to the childhood moments that whirl away, faster than you can blink your eyes. I think about my children's small hands in mine, or the unbearable sweetness of dimpled legs and hands. Even so--even though I love a newborn's starfish hands and the powdery smells of small babies, I think I have loved most watching my children turn into people I like; discovering their personalities, their quirks and charms, and the glimpses of who they will be in the years to come.
and this:
and similar scenes in every room: a sink filled with dishes, piles of laundry (I spared you the photos) and too much clutter everywhere. Clearly, when we all tore out of the house that morning, a bomb exploded in our absence. It was also one of those afternoons when you come home from the day, tired kids in tow, and discover that somewhere along the way your energy got sucked right out of you and you didn't even notice.
While I sent T. to clean up her room I looked longingly at my bed. It was tempting. I could hear T. chattering away to herself while she restored her stuffed animal collection to all the right places. Usually I cram as many things into a few snatched minutes of downtime as I can. If T. or L. are occupied I've become a pro at multi-tasking: finishing a post, or proofing a column, grading a handful of papers, unloading the dishwasher, even, or checking e-mail. I rarely use the few precious minutes to stretch out on the bed. But yesterday it was tempting. The breeze coming through the windows was too hard to resist. I thought about the afternoon siestas of my childhood, and the long evening of grading papers ahead.
Moments later, of course (kids have a built-in radar--as soon as they sense you have dared lie down in a bed, or picked up a book to read, they are there in a flash), I heard T. come into the room. I peeked through my lids and saw her watching me. She tiptoed over to the bed and clambered up.
"Shhhhh..." she said, to no one in particular. Then she pulled the work shirt I had just discarded (in favor of a cotton tee) over to me and tucked it solicitously around my chin.
"You can nap if you want to, Mama," she told me in a whispery voice when she saw I was smiling at her. And then she stretched out next to me and we chatted, just like two friends, about this and that.
I often get caught up with holding fast to the childhood moments that whirl away, faster than you can blink your eyes. I think about my children's small hands in mine, or the unbearable sweetness of dimpled legs and hands. Even so--even though I love a newborn's starfish hands and the powdery smells of small babies, I think I have loved most watching my children turn into people I like; discovering their personalities, their quirks and charms, and the glimpses of who they will be in the years to come.