It's quiet here. My girls are sleeping. I just finished a sandwich and an episode of a show I'm half a season behind on. I straightened the kitchen and started folding laundry. I haven't showered, I have no make-up on, but I am "dressed" in mismatched workout clothes for a day of housekeeping catch up and packing for another road trip tomorrow. It's one of those slow lazy days where there are a hundred things to do, but nothing seems to really matter. It will get done.
I'm just noticing today. Noticing my two year old getting sleepy after lunch. Lying on the back porch coloring the tiles with chalk and singing. Rolling in the unswept leaves, chalk covering her from head to toe. Slipping into her world, where I disappear and there's nothing but herself and her artwork and her sleepy singing. Missing words but keep a little tune, and singing the same verse of Jesus Loves Me over and over. "For the Bible tells me so". Choosing colors, scribbling a little on each tile, rolling the chalk around in her fingers, immersed in her world. After a long time, she snaps back to me, to the yard, the leaves beneath her, the sound of the mama bird in the bush by the porch, the timeline of the day. She notices her hands are messy and reaches for me saying "Mama you hold me." I scoop her up. I notice her weight and how long her legs reach down my body these days. I tell her she's getting so big, but she'll always be a little bit my baby. Her little chalky hand pats my back and she rests her sleepy head on my shoulder. "I'm ready to read and rest now, Mama." "Where is that mouse book?" Then clean up, clean clothes, wipe down, snuggle up, nap time. It seems slow and simple. Nothing to do that can't wait at least a little while. Just us. Just home. Just today.
There's another little person too. My Mae. Almost one, toddling around handing me things. A teacup. A ball. An Easter egg that didn't get put away. Smiling with each gift. Sometimes wanting it right back. Gathering books and hoarding them by a little rocking chair. She sits and reads. Arranging the books around the chair, turning them over in her hands, glancing at me. Am I watching? Do I see her? Do I celebrate her? Climbing and laughing and shaking her head "no" each time she stands up in her chair. Testing me. Learning her limits. I notice she's almost more toddler than baby now. There she is, walking, climbing, rocking, reading, being a little person. I see her. I see the tuft of hair on the crown of her head flop as she plays. I see that her eyes are getting darker. Not even a hint of baby blue now. Turning from hazel to brown. Maybe. I hear her chattering, trying sounds, pointing, telling me. Then getting sleepy too. Rubbing her eyes. Lying down on the floor. Finding a pillow, then crawling to me. Reaching up. She needs me. Needs sleep. I pick her up. Lights off, sound machine on, rocking, singing. Heavy eyes. Lay her down. Sleep.
A morning of squealing, giggling, whining, crying, singing. Lots of noise. Then quiet. Quiet house. Quiet heart. Resting in the present. It doesn't have to be a rush. Today is everything. It's simple. It's beautiful. It's my life. I see it and it's good.