Spiced up preschool carpool with some “Uptown Funk” and the Littlest Ginger was trying to convince his BFF (who has this song mastered) to sing, “Boys hit your Hallelujah” instead of the girls’ version. She wouldn’t have it. Oh no she wouldn’t! After declaring she was a girl, her singing grew significantly louder– “GIIIIRRRRLLLSS hit your Halelujah!” The Littlest Ginger wanted me to turn off the song after that. No worries– We’ll jam to some Rolling Stones “You can’t always get what you want” on our way home.
When later asked why he wanted his girly BFF to sing about boys, Jack responded, “I wanted her to cheer me on!”
Most days start at 6am for me. I like my quiet time– time to enjoy coffee, quiet and prayerful thanksgiving. Just as I was easing into my early morning comfort zone, someone yells down the stairs, “Mom, I wet through my pull-up!” And there went my quiet time as I was ushered up the stairs to strip the bed, clean the mattress, launder the sheets, and bathe my youngest. All the while, one daughter, who had been awake since my early rise, putters around the house– what she was doing is still unclear to me. All I know is the morning madness started earlier than I had intended, and by the time the bus came to pick up the girls, said daughter still hadn’t eaten breakfast or brushed her teeth. How does this happen? I am still bra-less and barefoot, and in my pajamas– a white t-shirt and pajama bottoms– I find myself in the doorway exchanging tongue-sticking-outing with her (real mature, I know, but for some reason she is mad at me about her predicament), while the dog sneaks past my legs and out the door for what soon becomes a several minute frenzy. I’m still bra-less and barefoot, running through the neighbors’ yards, my boobs flying all over the place, with an audience of kids and adults laughing at the bus stop. I never did catch the dog– a neighbor-kid came to the rescue and grabbed him. But on my way back into the house, annoyed, frustrated, and convinced my day was ruined, I checked Facebook (as though that will admonish any of these feelings). That’s when this picture smacked me in the face– “On this day ten years ago…”
And then it no longer mattered that the neighbors saw me running around, barefoot and bra-less. It no longer mattered that my quiet time was interrupted in the chaos of the morning shenanigans. What mattered was this kid, and all my kids, are healthy, thriving kids. What matters is that I have a family to love. What matters is there is an endless list of things to be thankful for.
There was a day when a friend told me about her child’s drawing-on-the-wall shinanigans, and I said a prayer of thanks that mine had never done that… but discovered a few days later that one of my darlings had actually shared his/her artistic talents on our walls in pen and marker. And then there was a day when I thanked God in the shower that we were finally over the stage where the kids might feel empowered enough to cut their own hair… and I came out of the shower only to find Elizabeth standing in front of the mirror, asking me how her hair got so short… And then there was the day we thought it was time to get nice new leather furniture– surely our kids are old enough to have nicer furniture— and then I go to sit in said furniture only to discover circles and “As” written all over it. And now we don’t have writing utensils, scissors, clean walls or nice furniture. The good news is everyone is still alive. 😜
Everyone always tells me someday I’ll miss the noise— the noise of carpools, the noise of dinner preparations, the noise of chore-assigning, the noise of playdates, the noise surrounding me as I plan our menu, schedule our week. It baffles me how I could possibly miss all of that!
When I sit and think about the community Paul and I have built within the walls our home, it feels good, and I can forget about the headaches and stress along the way. I tell people I am an introvert, but I think the opposite is true. While it’s true I crave quiet in the midst of crazy, I realize how quickly I grow bored in the quiet. I yearn for a measured amount of chaos and crazy. Measured, I said. Measured.
That’s the thing— I don’t know how to measure the appropriate amount of crazy in my life. I don’t know what my exact threshold of noise tolerance is. All I know is this: it’s the now, it’s my life, and I have so much to be grateful for.
This look… every.single.day when I ask, “<Ginger4>, where are your shoes?”