The day is September 9, 2023. The time is we-just-finished-breakfast.
The kids snuggle in for a Saturday show, my husband delves into his graduate research, and I drift through the house, absorbing the juxtapositions of our life.
I glaze over the dishes, the dying plants (yes, all the plants), the chunks of crumbling clay. Like a drumbeat building its rhythm — faster, louder, faster, louder — the mess overwhelms my heartbeat and stuffs up my ears. Things to clean. Things to trash. Things to spark rage.
I breathe deeply. I breathe more than once. I put down the trash bag.
I breathe again.
Why not display the empty bottle of cleaner next to my fourth-grader’s leaf print and my husband’s keys? Why not transform the trampoline into a craft center of pebbles and glue? Because it’s messy! I shout to myself. Because it’s just not done that way! Because these kids will never learn to be responsible!
But when I look at my children, when I actually look, they are thriving. This bushel of pioneering, creative prodigies who invent and create in ways I’d never imagine.
And I look at myself. The Rachael who has learned to tolerate (some) ambiguity. Who is (a little less) afraid of the unknown. Who can find ways to praise the exorbitant use of tape (while gently coaxing the kids into needful boundaries). Who is creating a whole flippin’ book series, for goodness’ sake.
Wonder doesn’t have a neat aesthetic in our house.
Wonder is the everywhere, every way, every thing approach to finding our voices.
Abandoned crackers. Abandoned diapers. Abandoned crafts. Cats flopping among the toys. This is my moment in time. This is my life — and it’s good.
This is so true and real and relatable (I mean--it’s us, so of course it’s relatable:) but it does give a framework that ties things together in an important and true way.
Great reminder to me.