A friend told me that writing is a lot like a time capsule — it provides tangible evidence of life’s accumulated moments. It enables the past to be present in the future.
It helps us remember.
So I write… because I want to remember. I want to remember THIS. Her, him, and her. At this age; at this time. I want to remember the enveloping fullness of having three children under the age of five.
Three.
Under five.
Such hugeness in such littleness.
Never in my life have I felt so bone-tired, so consumed, so stretched, so bonkers, so monotonous, and so daggone needed for… every… single… thing. It’s as though I’m playing a perpetual game of Whack-A-Mole. And it’s true what they say — my coffee never fails to be cold; going to the grocery store sans kids is comparable to a mini vacation; and I always have a captive audience in the bathroom.
Good grief.
Interestingly enough, a survey of American mothers determined *three* is the most stressful number of children to have. PLUS, a witty mommy blog described the messy “trenches” of motherhood as lasting through age five. Looks like I’m batting 2 for 2, folks. No wonder I am feeling so cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
Yet…
Never in my life have I felt so instrumental, so affectionate, so all-important, so blessed, so unconditionally adored, and so daggone grateful for… every… single… thing. My dreams have virtually come true right before my eyes, and this chaotic, beautiful season deserves a warm embrace.
Small souls, big love. Collectively— their skin is soft; their voices are mousey; they fit in one bathtub; they take afternoon naps; their boo-boos are healed with a kiss; and their joys are so simple.
Yes, I want to remember.
Because tomorrow – although it will feel exactly the same – it will change ever so slightly.
Three.
Five and under.
Amazing how it goes so fast while taking forever.