Words wearily whispered to myself in the dark of my living room this morning as 19 month old Bubbles thrashed and whined even as he nursed. The dark of my living room shortly after 4:00 a.m. Taken there, because he was waking his Dad up in the attempts to cuddle him in our bed.
Molars eventually find their way and sleep comes back. Until then, he nurses and nurses and nurses some more. He whines and clings and whines some more.
Hours into it, Motrin finally working, he zonks out in my arms. Mouth parted slightly, brows still creased in fretfulness, eye lashes draping, beauty asleep.
"This won't last forever."
Days of him sleeping in my arms will be longed for, as will the wish he sought them out in his fretfulness. All teeth will be in, he will wean, and I will sleep once again. The hours of him and I, alone in the dim light of a lamp, will recede into memories.
"This won't last forever."
Repeated to myself with teeth ground in frustration as she cries over phonics. "I can't do it! Reading doesn't like me and I. . . . caaaan't. . . . do. . . . it!!!!"
The meaning of letters put together into words will soon be grasped. There will be new hurdles to cross but this one will be passed. My moment of choice, whether to grow angry with the obstinate conviction that she is unable or to put my voice one pitch higher in a, "You can do it pep talk" instead, has effects that will linger in her heart.
We struggle on, me forcing an excitement I don't feel. I just want to melt-down with her. But "this won't last forever" and we'll move on. On to social heartbreaks, deep-seated fears this world's craziness will bring, and personal battles with her weaknesses.
"This won't last forever."
Water spilled, toilet paper unwound, paint gotten into, snack cupboard open with snacks spilled out, dirt tracked into the house, flowers uprooted, garden so carefully tended trampled. . . simply seconds in the larger timeline of life. Seconds that don't matter in the grand scheme, though they threaten to undo in the present.
"This won't last forever."
Another meal fixed, another meal refused, with turned up nose. Another load of laundry. Another sink full of dishes. Another bed to make. Another diaper to change.
These days end and joy will be found in the idea of them bringing laundry home from college and fixing a meal for them, their spouse, and my grandchildren. Beds will sit pretty and unused and diapers will long be a thing of the past. To-do's will be everything but caring for their basic needs and an emptiness of purpose will nag. Life will be simpler but the house will have less bodies and hearts within.
"This won't last forever."
She talks non-stop as we drive. It's a running monologue of questions and ideas and flights of fancy and deepest heart desires. A princess birthday would be amazing, how are cars made, why doesn't God let us see him, she's going to be a dancing artist, when will a baby sister come, how is the sky blue, when will Christmas come, Mommy you're my best friend and I really like you. . .
"This won't last forever."
God's grace is so desperately needed these days. Grace to not lose the temper threatening to explode at the refused work of a meal, to not yell at tears when I know she can get it if she'd just think a little bit more rather than just giving up, when dirt is thrown on newly washed floors, when he just won't quit creating disasters. Grace to find energy to teach when four hours of sleep have barely been gotten. Grace to answer questions when I have my own bundle of them that nothing but eternity can answer for me. Grace to fully engage them when I'm so weary I feel like I'm in a zombie survival mode instead.
Bubbles is awake now, calling "Mama" so very pitifully through the monitor. Miraclegirl just woke up 15 minutes ago and he has only slept for 45 since finally going down after our 3:30 morning.
Life calls and I wonder how I'm going to do today.
But I know this won't last forever.
