I had big plans this morning:
Eat a healthy breakfast.
Get the big girls off to school.
Put away the laundry.
So, I did a few more chores until it became unquestionably clear that it was going to keep raining.
So, I did a few more chores, vacuumed the bonus room carpet, and placed Joseph down in a sea of toys to play so that I could do a quick video workout.
But…he wasn’t having it.
So, instead, we played together in a sea of toys until he became tired and fussy.
“Are you ready for cereal buddy? Let’s go downstairs,” I told him.
He sat alert in his high chair; his big blue eyes watched me move about the kitchen. He gripped his small, stuffed Very Hungry Caterpillar in his hands, and then proceeded to discuss something which seemed very important between the two of them.
I sliced up half an avocado and put it on a plate with a few chunks of yellow seedless watermelon.
We listened to Derek Trucks Band over the Sonos kitchen speaker and enjoyed our mid-morning snack. The rain trickled down outside on the patio where the flowers and shrubbery are in full bloom, offering up their colors and scents to yet another beautiful summer day.
I spooned Gerber rice cereal into Joseph’s mouth, scooping with his tiny red rubber coated spoon what didn’t stay put back in between his lips, and then proclaiming, “uh oh,” while he giggled and cooed.
His eyelids started to become heavy.
“All done?” I asked. “Let’s clean up.” I wiped his mouth with a wet paper towel and lifted him from his high chair. We walked into the living room, grabbed his blanket with the small blue trucks printed all over it, and walked over to the bookshelf.
“Let’s read books, Joseph!”
We made our selections: Brown Bear, Big Red Barn, Goodnight Moon, and the Very Hungry Caterpillar—those are his favorites. He eagerly grabbed the edges of his books—bringing the cardboard pages closer and closer until his lips almost touched the pictures—as I read to him aloud. He proceeded to tell the animals in his stories his own magnificent tale.
Joseph drifted off to sleep while we looked together out of the big back windows and talked about the red cardinals enjoying their breakfast at our bird feeders in the garden.
I’m the old mom now.
I have grown children from babies into teenagers.
I know how quickly time can move if I worry too much about what is not and what should be; if I worry too much about what if instead of what is.
I know the importance of letting things happen and letting things go.
Ten years ago, I would have worried obsessively all morning about when I was going to work out. I would have become frustrated with myself and my children for not being able to control my day exactly as I had planned.
I would have hurried through our snack, shoveling food into baby’s mouth without taking the time to watch his lips move just so. I wouldn’t have laughed with him as his tongue worked to identify the brand new flavors and textures we often take for granted once they become all too familiar.
But, this morning, I didn’t do that.
Instead, I let things be.
I have learned by now that if I don’t allow things to happen, and if I don’t meet the unexpected parts of my daily life with some sense of appreciation and gratitude for what I might find there exactly as it was meant to be, I run the risk of missing out on the most precious gift I own today at this very moment, and it’s one gift that we all share together. It’s one gift that none of us can’t, try as we might, ever change:
the Passage of Time
So, my friends, let us spend it wisely.