I'm in the weeds of parenthood right now. I'm in that part where there is so incredibly much to do that I work from the wee hours in the morning until I crumble into my bed at night, and it feels like nothing was accomplished. At the beginning of the year, I determined that this will be Self-Care 2016, but quite frankly the idea of finding ways to relax is stressing me out. It's ridiculous, really, but there it is. Between working, feeding all these mouths, maintaining the house and carting everyone around for extracurriculars, doctors' appointments, school functions and the rest, I barely have time to pause and absorb what is happening.
When I slow down, I see that there's an airplane in my living room, along with a pile of laundry on the couch, a plastic baby under the recliner, a pile of books under the table from the toddler's manic reading binges, and puffs of dog hair that never seem to go away no matter how much we sweep them up. There's an adolescent iguana surveying the scene with judgmental interest from her perch in her ginormous cage. Even though the kitchen was cleaned last night, there's already a pile of dishes on the counter waiting for a dishwasher vacancy. The stack of recycling is falling over in the corner. The chaos, the intense non-stop on that is my home, is overwhelming.
Inviting people to come into my home always carries with a disclaimer: "My house is a wreck." It's not that I don't try. Or that I've given up. Or that it's not important to me. It's just where we are right now. No matter how hard I work, it's always a wreck. Sometimes, if I can kick everyone out for a day, I can have the house sparkling for about five minutes before they blow through and leave an infuriating path of destruction behind them. Even so, I am acutely aware that time is running away through my fingers as I try to grasp a few moments to slow down for just a minute or two.
My oldest kid is fifteen. She was four when I met her. These eleven years are a blink. One minute I was teaching her how to read a clock and now she is learning to drive. She cleans up after herself, runs her own laundry, and is always ready to lend a hand. I can't remember the last time I folded one of her shirts. She no longer plays with the airplane in the living room.
These moments...these annoying, chaotic, frustrating, overwhelming, seemingly endless repetitive moments are a flash in the pan. I don't remember what it was like when the teenagers played with little kid things. I don't remember their hands clutching little people, locked in an imaginary world. I didn't take enough pictures.
Lately I still haven't been taking enough photos, even though I know better. The one-year-old will be driving next week or so, and yet I am too ashamed of the disorder in my living room to take pictures of his chubby little hands on those little plastic people he loves so dearly right now. Yesterday I was pregnant, today he is a tornado, tomorrow he will be off to college.
We are in the weeds of parenthood, and it is beautiful. The airplane in my living room is the toddler's. So is the baby under the recliner--the baby he cuddles, kisses, tucks under blankies, and swings around in a circle by the legs. The laundry, the dishes, the pet hair and all the rest are trappings of a vivacious, brilliant life. It's okay to document all of this as it is now, because when it is over I won't remember. I'm too busy doing all the things to commit this part to memory.
All I will have are photos.
All you will have are photos. If I want to preserve these moments for you, I have to be willing to open the doors to my home and let you see mine. We have to be authentic for each other. It is important for both of us.
As I crack myself open to write, I will show you pieces of my real life as well. I'll show you the airplane (and the horse, the parrot, the barn, the wrecked car, and even the mystery crumbs) in the living room.
