Sometimes late at night, I’ll slip into the little boys room and sit on the floor and watch them sleep.
Their little bodies, with their hands stretched out over head, and the soft sound of the inhales and exhales fill the room and I sit in there, on the worn Ikea car track rug, and watch them sleeping peacefully. The rush of the day slips away, and there I am with them, grateful, and so often the tears well up in the corners of my worn mothering eyes.
I am so thankful for those little ones filling the rooms in my home.
Yet, I race through my life at such a pace that I find myself forgetting just how grateful I am for the breaths that come from each of them and the laughter and joy that they bring.
I get stuck.
Looking at the laundry piles and grumbling about the mismatched sock and missing the gratitude for the feet that go in them.
I don’t want to live missing out on those little moments.
Yet, I forget.
I grumble about the dishes, the cleaning, the toys dumped out, the seat left up in the bathroom, the lights not turned off, the dinners to make, the floors to scrub, and I lose the joy and instead pick up grumbling. I don’t want to live being this grumbly mom – and yet, often, when I’m in the midst of crazy it’s so easy to lose sight of the good.
Motherhood is this season, this window of busy, that can so quickly race through our lives. I remember my sweet grandmother sitting next to me, my grandmother with her lovely worn hands and her blue eyes, and she would tell me that it just felt as if she was my age. And I never understood it when I was younger. I really didn’t – I’d smile and nod and tell her I loved her but I’d go on racing through my day thinking I had many more of these in front of me.
I’m starting to understand my grandmother’s words.
I look at my Hannah.
Almost grown (she’s grown now and a sophomore in college 1900 miles from me).
And I remember the days where I would sit in her room late at night and watch her sleep as well. I remember the prayers that I would pray – let me be a good mother, and let me love her well – and I wonder and wish that I could remember more. Why was I so wrapped up in things that I thought were important but really weren’t? And now, here she is shooting weddings, and cooking meals, and grown up.
It goes so fast.
I want to remember the little joys.
The gifts that we’re given as mothers in the midst of the crazy. Learning to tie their shoes, ride a bike, read a book, walk, drive — all those things — they matter — the hugs in the morning, the whispers of I love you back and forth, the flowers picked, the laughter at the table, the feel of the toddler’s head resting on my shoulder as I read, the sweet memories of sitting in Starbucks with my teens, the thanks that I get for a good meal made, the time spent together.
It’s not the big things that bring joy.
It’s the little things.
So that night, that night, when I sat in Samuel and Elijah’s room and watched them sleep, that night I was truly grateful.
Grateful for the gift of that day.
And the gift of this crazy beautiful world of motherhood.
Embrace it friends.
The crazy JUST MIGHT BE beautiful.