I know, I know: Who even remembers January?
I only do because I have pictures.
Pictures of new adventures and a wide-eyed toddler, because January was mostly about the view.
The view from the front window, or the bedroom window. Our views on food. The view from the parking lot – of vast landscapes of fresh snow, or a flurry of sky lanterns taking our burdens and the lies we believed far, far away. Views of a cloth diapered butt in the morning light.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of a fresh start, and, actually, it’s a lot like fresh snow. (Which mine eyes have also seen a lot of lately.) It’s gentle, but merciless. Quiet, but demanding. Soft, but dangerous, and the gentle weight of it muffles the background noise.
Oh, and it’s sparkly.
Meatball has given me a new view. Some of it he’s been working on almost his whole life (talk about dedication), and some of it is new.
Like food. Since he started eating pureed food at six months old, I haven’t been able to shake this nagging feeling that I should know what I’m feeding him. And now he only wants what we’re eating, so it’s kind of hitting the road and it’s changing the way I look at food.
And, more recently, winter. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the cold, but watching a toddler experience his first real winter is pretty magical. I played in the snow for the first time in over a decade. I deliberately stood outside longer than I needed to, so we could breathe deep and turn our faces toward the falling snow.
He held one arm tight around my neck and with the other he pointed at where the snow was coming from. “OOHHH!” he insisted.
“Snow,” I explained.
Arm still extended, face still open to the sky, he closed his eyes and waited. And waited. And when a clump of flakes landed on his cheek, he smiled and opened his eyes and tried to look down to watch it melt without moving his face. And then he closed his eyes and waited again.
He’s changing my view of me too.
That last picture (and I’m almost embarrassed to type this), was actually an accident. I have a camera app that takes a picture when you release the button, and a camera app that take a picture every second as long as you hold the button. I was trying to get a picture of us for Sarah. I thought I was in the former app. I was in the later. I ended up with dozens of ridiculous pictures, and that one.
Me and my baby and some after-nap snuggles.
I get so frustrated with myself sometimes that I cry. Poor Husband doesn’t know what to do with me, and I feel bad for him every time.
Because I want to be good at what I do. I want to be a good wife and a good mama and a good homemaker and a good mentor and a good pastor and a good employee and friend and daughter, sister, all of it.
And when I say, “good,” I mean, “excellent.”
It’s impossible, of course, but I still want it. I want to never be short with my husband or my son. I want to teach the Meatball things and dress him all snappy and feed him super healthy. I want my house to be cute and always clean and stocked for surprise lunch visits. I want to never disappoint or discourage or fall short, no matter how impossible it seems.
But when he wakes up from a nap, he calls for me, and he sits on my lap, and he rests his head on my chest.
Even when the laundry isn’t folded and the sink is full of dirty dishes. Even when I’ve totally screwed up the morning, or lost my temper, or forgotten to get something for dinner again. Somehow he still wants me.
He still hugs me. Still plants lazy kisses on my face. Still nestles his head beneath my chin. And the weight of his small body relying completely on the inconsistent strength of my own reminds me that the measure of a person’s worth is not the detail of her accomplishments. It’s love.
Filed under: Life, Mothering
