I watched a video on Rage Against the Minivan that made me all shivery and inspired. Every once in awhile I read (or in this case, I heard something read) that penetrates the mundane to expose the beauty of heaven. It is in those moments that I want to be a writer and I decide to keep coming back here to try, again, and again, and again, to connect.
It also touched on something I believe so deeply and completely: I believe that being a mother who stays home with children is a massive and stunning life choice. It may be difficult to maintain identity, and to delineate appropriate boundaries, and to stand tall as a person without a "career", but those are just roots for us to trip on while we are in the midst of doing something messy, influential, and immense. It's not for everyone, but for those of us who have it in our hearts, it is something worth doing with every fiber of our beings.
Today my house succumbed to the jumbled play of three children held indoors by rain. There were blocks and animals dominating the living room, left abandoned when I forced the older two to the back of the house while Finch slept at the front. That's the rule around here - outdoors when it is dry, and dining room and kitchen play only when it's wet, while Finch sleeps.
The table was a mess of paper scraps (we're working on scissors skills at the preschool's request), confetti from a hole punch, markers, and lego. The dining chairs were rearranged to create a fort and the old iron cooking stove that is built into the wall became a reading nook with a pillow and books.
I waited until the children settled deep into their pretend play before slipping out to work on readying the guest room for my cousin who is coming to nanny while I'm gone. The play went awfully quiet at one point but the alarm that registered in my brain wasn't strong enough to motivate me to leave my task. Once, when I checked in on them, I puzzled over the long blond hairs stuck to Small Sun's head. "How odd." I mused, before continuing on with trading curtains out, fluffing pillows, and doing the gymnastic dance that is stuffing a duvet into a silk cover.
When I returned again to the dining room I saw it on the sideboard - a pile of golden hair, and one clump of tight dark curls, and nearby...the scissors.
They practiced their cutting all right!
They told me cheerfully, with no guilt whatsoever, how Sprout wanted to cut her hair, so she did! And she wanted to cut Small Sun's hair too, so she did! She cut it here (a bald place on one side), and here (a top chunk sticking up on the other side), and here (a jagged slash right at the front)!
I did my best to explain the gravity, the seriousness of the offense. When I confiscated the illicitly used scissors, she fell down crying passionately, mouth wide with teeth gaping in protest. How could I take her precious scissors??? The lesson was lost on her, I think.
The guest room finished as Finch awoke, I turned to vacuuming, alternately holding the little imp on my hip, and working in slow motion as he stood, clutching my leg or the body of the vacuum. Between the children's room and mine, I set him on his feet and held out my hands. In the middle of vacuuming, magic happened - the first step! Standing, he stepped his little foot out, then grasped my hands in glee. I saw it. The first step was all mine. Small Sun and I whooped and hollered a little celebration right there in the hall.
Right there, in the middle of the mundane, the curtain flapped and we saw heaven.
Pillow forts and impromptu haircuts, first steps and hot towels smelling of lavender, fresh from the dryer on a rainy day, it's perfect, and today it's enough for me.