Perspectives

Somebody remind me that someday I will miss the days when I would put my hand into the Kleenex box and find it empty of soft tissues but filled almost to the top with dozens of small, beat-up cars. Tell me that someday I will miss not having to put more toys and plastic bags and blankets and pillows than three children should be able to mess back into their proper places every single night after 8 o’clock.

And tell me that I will miss not finding toys and dollies and pieces of paper in my bed when I go to sleep at night. Remind me that having a shiny floor for more than ten minutes will lose its appeal, and that someday I just might miss washing the floor after every meal and snack because the baby spilled her siblings’ drinks AGAIN, in addition to all the other food and eating utensils that she just could not keep on the table.

Assure me that I will be sad that I do not get to clean the mirrors and all the windows near the couches and the kitchen table because small fingers (and also tongues) keep making streaks and prints and squiggles so that we cannot see through the smudges.

I need to someone to tell me “Wherever you are, be ALL there,” and be grateful for the messy chaos of these days because one day I will blink and they will be gone.

Dreams

“I’m sorry, Mommy.  I’m so sorry I was disobedient yesterday.”

Hannah apologizes for her disobedient or disrespectful attitudes whenever I am less than cheerful or a little quieter than usual. She was not greatly disobedient yesterday, so I asked her what she had done that was disobedient.

“Ummmmm, I’m just saying that because I still want to live with you when I grow up to be a mommy.”

Lovely.  I’m sure you’ll still feel that way in ten years.

Hannah is quiet while she contemplates that wonderful future.  Then, “Do you know what I will name my husband?”

“What will you name your husband?”

Earnestly, “Nate.”  She is silent for a few seconds.  “He will be a new Nate.”

I can hardly wait to see her life in twenty or so years.  I am sure her husband would not mind changing his given name for the Princess Hannah Kairos.

Places.

“There is a place for everything, and for everything a place.”

My mom used to say that a lot.  I am beginning to understand why she felt the need to repeat it so very often.

For Navayah, the place for Kleenexes is OUT OF THE BOX.  The place for toilet paper is in shreds around the floor.  The place for every item in any purse, bucket, or bag is OUT of its container and, you guessed it, strewn about the floor.  The place for any un-lidded drink is tipped over and spilled all over the floor.  Markers and un-lidded drinks must emit a sort of homing signal that only she can sense, because she finds them better than adults–under furniture, behind chairs, in between and beneath couch cushions.  The place for the markers Navayah finds is uncapped and coloring her teeth and hands.

For Eli, the place for a car when you “don’t wike it” anymore is down the heater vent.  For both the preschoolers, the place for coins is in the now non-functional DVD player.  (“We put money in there.  It was funny!  Yep.  And it made lots of noise!” And they said it like they expected me to be PROUD of them!!)

The place for Eli’s snot is his fingers, mouth, sisters’ clothing, or–the latest–windows. ["MOM!  MAH-UM! MOM!  ELI WIPED HIS SNOT ON THE WINDOW!"]  Eli’s nose is wet from the first snow to the first thunderstorm.  He likes to sneeze or blow “railroad tracks” out of his nose: two long perfectly parallel streams of snot.  His goal is to see if he can make it reach the ground without breaking.  He’s made it nearly to his waist before.

The place to clean out “toe ham” is in the middle of church, second row from the front, during announcements and just before being dismissed for Sunday school.  Honestly! I had no idea when I first showed Eli his toe jam a month ago that it would turn into such an obsession!  It has also become a reward, as in, “Finish eating your lunch so you can be excused to pick your toe ham.”  He will pick Nayah’s toe ham if she remains still long enough.  He yanks both n8’s and my socks off if ever we sit near him on the floor and proceeds to clean out any cotton lodged between our toes. I never realized that having your toes spread and plucked clean by tiny fingers could feel almost violating.

I have less than twenty years to try to civilize them.  This seems like such a daunting task right now!