Thursday, September 6, 2018

I can('t).

I can't.

I can't do this anymore.

I can't clean up one more cup of milk from the kitchen floor. I can't pick up these same toys over and over again.  I can't referee one more screaming match between siblings.

I can't spend one more day wearing clothes covered in random sticky substances - snotty noses wiped on my pants, spit up on my shirt.  The dirty laundry multiplying before my eyes.

I can't spend one more night falling into bed exhausted, worn down not only by the actual day - but by the weight of everything that I didn't get accomplished.  My soul crushed under the expectations of what a GOOD mom would have achieved in the last 24 hours. 

But... I can take a breath.

I can remember that making memories is often messy, and that kids are washable.

I can laugh to myself when I see them making a face that I make, or using phrases and expressions they clearly have inherited from their mother.

I can watch them sleep and marvel at the fact that no matter how old they get, I can look at their faces and see those babies we brought home from the hospital.

I can be the keeper of our family memories.  I can save these snapshots in my head.  I can remind myself that when there are no more sticky hands and dirty faces to clean, I will have earned the privilege of regaling them with stories of the little people they used to be.

I can.

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