So lately it feels like that is what I am doing. Wading through molasses with my little mons-ners. Moulding these little people. Its hard. They fight against me, general skills, even life it seems. Miss S is 4. Four!! She came in the dining room the other day with something in her mouth and I asked her what it was and she didn’t want to show me. After some prodding, I discovered she had a giant paperclip in her mouth. I thought she was past putting odd things in her mouth. I was mistaken. I got it out, we discussed how that was not a good idea and how I did not want to go to the emergency room that afternoon and besides all of which she could have choked or something. Mr A is 6 and fights against general nutrition in a militaristic fashion. He has studied (very basic) nutrition at school, we discuss it at home, I explain WHY we’re eating what I have prepared….. no dice. This morning he had a fit about yogurt. YOGURT!! How could a child possibly not like strawberry yogurt?! Its not like I was trying to feed them steamed brussel sprouts for breakfast. In any case, after the tantrum and him getting Mr M all riled up in an actual crying fit over yogurt, they both discovered that the yogurt was not for them at all. (So picture my situation now: I have a four year old running around half dressed so excited about going to school with no pants on, one crying 8 year old, and a really loud and angry 6 year old and it is not even 8 AM yet.) Oy vey. And this… this is why I am so tired much of the time. It is not that I am actually physically tired. I mean, sometimes by the end of the day, yes, I am tired, but much of the time, its that I am so emotionally tired from stopping the fights, holding my ground, keeping rules in place, generally keeping my little mons-ners alive. It is actually hard and it wears me down. And of course, the other side of this is that my mornings do not always look like that scenario. Sometimes they are quite uneventful. (Except for the no pants thing, that seems to happen a lot, or no shoes.) So after making it through my daily molasses and dropping off everyone for school, I try to focus on my coffee and remember the good parts. The parts where I get to watch them sing at church in the children’s choir while Miss S plays with her hat and Mr M waves at me so hard he can’t remember the song, the parts where I get to watch the boys play soccer while Miss S runs around the field with the other little sisters from our neighborhood, the sweet parts of settling them in at night, because I know that won’t always be there. They will eventually be too big for me to buckle their seatbelts and too big for me to tuck in at night. I can see it too. I can see Mr A’s face when he wakes up in the morning with ruffled messy hair, groggy with a, “hey mom” on his way to the bathroom. He looks older and older every day. He’s losing the babyfat look around his face and becoming more boyish and handsome. He’s such a little dude. It makes me so happy and proud and so I dunno, not sad, but it does make me cry. I’m not sure how to place the emotion actually. I coudln’t possibly have held any of the children longer when they were babies. I loved loved loved them as babies, but maybe awe? Is it awe that I feel when I see them and literally feel as if I am watching them grow in front of me? This hard work that makes me so tired, that makes my heart, soul and nerves weary, it also fills me up and makes me “go” every day. This is what I am supposed to be doing and what makes me feel whole. This is what all of us are supposed to be doing in some fashion or another. Moulding each other, our communities, our friends and family, and of course, the children.
Be Fierce. Mould a life.