I wrote the following after one rather normal day last week. May God give us all strength for the task he has given us.
Today one of my three year olds went on two crying jags that lasted an hour each–one before breakfast and one over lunch… Another three year old had several bathroom accidents and needed clothes changed twice. My 8 month old choked on a chip she found while crawling around under the table after supper. I turned her upside down and did back slaps and she coughed it out. I dropped a rock on my son’s toe and made it bleed. That was while I was cleaning up a mess from a rock- painting venture. I am not artistic, but the three year olds watched rapt as I painted a watermelon slice, a piece of pizza, a flower, and a blue van… My son forgave me for dropping a rock on his toe, but I made him cry again when I found him pulling out my precious baby lettuce plants this afternoon. He only wanted to help me weed, I am sure. It took the twins about an hour to eat one small bowl of soup each– and that with Mommy spoon- feeding them. It is possible that white chicken chili is not fully appreciated by anyone but myself.
Lest one would think today was a failure, let me tell you of moments spent sitting in the sandbox under spring sunshine and gentle sunset, of baby smiles and sparkling lights at evening-tide, of apologies given and forgiveness granted, of prayers and songs of peace, of children’s creativity and laughter. “Mommy, come look, I put my baby to sleep so cozy in the nursery!” he said, and the baby is there still, tucked into a child-made bed in the middle of the hall floor. I did not want to disturb him.
There are days very rare when I think that perhaps being a mom is not so hard after all. But the ends of most days find me here, agreeing with Mrs. Mallard that “raising so many little ducklings is a great responsibility indeed” (from Make Way for Ducklings by Robert Mcloskey).
