Just as the sun barely makes an entrance, before coffee brews or before feet are brushed by carpet, I wonder how the day will unfold. There are always lists and expectations, there is more to do than what lazily rests on white lined paper.
And there is a great pull, a tugging of sorts that calls out to mothers, do and be more. It whispers that motherhood is not enough. There are more important roads to travel, more scenery to seize. I wonder if it’s because there is little recognition in the menial tasks done over and over, day after day.
It often becomes routine to meet the responsibilities of life: fixing lunches, pressing clothes, washing and folding, and putting away. The have to’s seem to come in quickly and leave quietly. But it’s the moments that are not measured that linger like a hazy fog. It’s the opportunities in the day when chatting and play pass and no one knows the wiser.
But what seems menial now will soon enough tip the scales of significance. The days will have rolled into weeks and weeks into months and added together seasons will have passed. And the words and lessons taught around a cramped kitchen table will stretch further than the walls and windows of our home.
And the tasks that seem tedious today will gently shape, from silhouettes to soul, who are children become.