24 September 2015


As I walk to grab something from another room, I pause in the doorway and turn to look back, mainly to make sure that no one is going to be in any immediate danger while I step away for thirty seconds.

My oldest is on the couch watching Kinder Surprise Egg videos on my old phone, now hers. She insists on watching these videos. I fail to understand the point of them, and can't help but wonder what made someone decide to record themselves opening candy eggs, but I don't tell her that. I mean, she could be asking to watch Frozen. I'll respect her choices in entertainment.

Her sister is eating applesauce at the table. She stands on the chair, rather than sitting on it, her head tipped back as she drinks from the bowl, the spoon untouched. She will ask for more in about three seconds. We're working on the actual words, but she knows that I understand her motions and eyes. The speech pathologist we saw for an initial assessment told me I shouldn't give her what she wants unless she says the word. It goes against every single instinct I feel as her mother- to take care of her, to anticipate her needs. I know how hard she's trying. I will keep encouraging her to say "more," telling myself that I will wait for her actual speech therapist to come up with a plan, maybe one that won't be so hard on my heart, though I doubt it will be.

The baby is on the floor looking at books. He already has favorites, which is normal, yet almost novel to me, because I still think of him as being an actual infant. He turns the pages and points to the pictures, saying "duck" and "what's this," completely unaware that anyone is watching him. He is comfortable in his place- in the moment and in our family, as he should be. As they all are.

I look at them and see three-fourths of my heart spread across the room. I see a completely ordinary moment, and I feel immense gratitude for it.

My house is stuck halfway between messy and clean, as it always is. It is far from quiet. Very far. I can't tell you if I have gotten around to brushing my hair yet. I might not even be able to find my brush, though I know if it's not in my bathroom, it's been thrown down the stairs. I have leftovers in my refrigerator that I hesitate to even open and I'm tripping over piles of laundry that I know I was caught up on last week.


I am happy. This incredibly ordinary moment caught me off guard and reminded me of that. I am happy right now in a way that is almost tangible. I look around and try my best to take it in, to savor it, to hold onto it tightly because I know there will be a day, maybe soon, maybe a couple months from now, that I will need to remember. I keep these moments tucked away, to pull out when I need them.

I would take a picture, but someone disabled my phone for the next fourteen minutes. Somehow, that makes me smile.

No comments:

Post a Comment