I think we have all been needing a break from each other.
Fantasies of knapsacks, and train tracks.
At least a few days away.
It’s showing up in how forcefully the dishwasher gets loaded.
It’s showing up in how often we sigh.
In the long looks with slow blinks paired with slow inhales.
We are weary.
Maybe we all need to cry.
I’ve tried to keep home life feeling normal,
but some days I simply cannot.
No matter how hard I try to use my sing-songy voice,
or how positive I try to seem while the girls see right through.
Not when tears burn hot from the missing of friendships.
Not when an eight year old begs to understand why she can’t do something she wants to do.
We have a whole new routine now.
Where we go is different, and what we eat is different.
Everything around us feels changed.
Looking back at photos from just a year ago is almost like looking at someone else’s life;
As if everything we were, and planned to be, and do
got swallowed up whole,
and simply no longer exists.
The kids are almost always in their pajamas now.
The ones that never make it to their drawers.
The faded dinosaurs, they look kind of tired, too.
I don’t even know when my youngest last bathed.
I don’t want to think of new things for the kids to do.
Gone are the Pinterest worthy days of weeks 1-3.
Gone are the free zoom art classes, and sculpting hour.
Gone are the books read aloud by their author.
Gone is every form of meal plan.
This “new normal” has drained things from us.
This “new normal” is plainly not.
On Sunday the girls and I talked about the concept of God being everywhere.
I asked them what that thought made them think of,
and I was surprised when my oldest said that it made her think of the story of Jonah in the Bible –
swallowed up and spending days inside a whale when he had tried to run away.
How to Jonah all he would have seen was darkness,
when in reality he was protected and delivered to land.
She said, “Maybe these days just feel like darkness.
Maybe there is more to EVERYTHING than we see.”
It made me think for a moment about living in this low-lit time with my family –
My husband, my daughters and me.
What do we do in the darkness?
We feel around for things we know.
A face we recognize even under a mask at the store.
A voice we can tell is having one of its good days.
A small routine that feels like we are still ourselves again.
We water gardens,
and we watch them grow.
Fingertips groping for even something small to use as a life reference point.
And oh,
I want to feel something I know.
I don’t want to be wishing for a break from my family.
Time already too quickly goes.
This week we redid all three girls’ bedrooms, and it took putting the comforter on the final full sized bed to realize that, without thinking about it,
I had just hauled the very last twin bed ever from my house and placed that end of an era in the garage.
Life keeps moving.
Life just stands still.
The one that happens is opposite of whichever
you wish for.
The other night my eight year old, Paige, cried just before bed.
She was frustrated at her sisters and said maybe she would run away.
I smiled thinking how much I truly understood,
But to her I said,
“Please don’t go. I’d miss you. Tomorrow is a brand new day.”
Knowing it was just that she was so tired,
I pulled her to me and said,
“Come here. I know what will make you feel better.
I remember my mama doing this when I had tears.”
I ran water, feeling for it to run warm,
and I soaked a clean washcloth in it.
I squeezed it out that perfect amount.
Wrung, but still retaining its warmth.
I hoisted Paige onto the counter and started with her face.
I wiped the streaks of her tears away.
Next I moved to her little hands,
relaxed together in my palm.
Then to her feet.
Her dirty, country life feet…
I washed every one of her toes.
Next I cleaned and trimmed all of her nails.
It had been way too long by the sight.
Neither of us spoke a word while I did,
but we both smiled ever so slightly.
That washcloth is the picture of the mother that I want to be at the end of every uncertain day.
Wrung, but retaining all of my warmth.
Here to clean them up,
and wipe their tears.
I cared for my girl that night in the simplest way,
but I could almost feel that washcloth even on my own face.
We can start over again.
Tomorrow is a new day.
We start over,
And we don’t run away.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
