I've Got To Be Careful.
There is a tree in our backyard. To me, it rains big leaves and sheds and takes up space, I fear that it is uprooting our brand new vinyl fence. It's not my friend.
But my kids climb that tree and get lost in it, in a Peter Pan/Tink kind of imaginary way. My six-year-old daughter climbs to the highest branch and sends the two-year-old in the house to tell my husband, "Oo-ee tuck! Oo-ee tuck!" (translation, "Zoe's stuck!"). My husband, wanting to yell at Zoe for disregarding her own safety, switches into hero mode as she wants him to do, runs to the tree outside, and guides her down the branches one by one until his strong-Daddy shoulders are within reach of her size 13 1/2 feet. She climbs onto Daddy, and all is well for my little girl.
To me, it's a tree. To my children, it's a chance for Dad to prove his heroism. So I've got to be careful.
There are two loads of laundry I commit to daily; one I wash, one I fold and put away. I complain about the laundry a lot; it never ends. Even if you put in the time to wash every single item in every single hamper (which usually smells), a task that can drive one insane and set back the other household duties schedule, within ten minutes, maybe five, someone will toss in a dirty shirt or pair of wet socks into the hamper you worked so diligently to empty. It's not worth it.
But my kids exclaim, "My favorite pajamas are clean! Thank you Mom!" I suppose they infer that as caretaking. It's a consistency they rely on (lest they go to school naked, how embarrassing). Undoubtedly a maternal chore taken for granted, but opening the closet door and finding clean hoodies on unexpected raindy days, or a baseball uniform folded and placed on a bedside chair before game time is more important than I realize.
To me, laundry is a task that keeps me from writing and dampers my spirit. To my children, the lemony scent of fabric softener now will be an aromatic footnote of security in their childhood later on. So I've got to be careful.
There are always messes in my kids rooms. Toys thrown on every square inch of carpet, clothes on the floor, shoes keeping the closets from closing all the way. It drives me insane. I find myself closing the door to my kid's bedrooms rather than obligating myself to do the cleaning for them. I dread the stuffed animals pushed into corners, the half-finished drawings or crayons forgotten under beds.
But my kids sleep there. At night, when it is dark and I can't see the messes as I check on them, it's peaceful so that I nearly cry. My children place their trophies there, make forts there, and ponder their bad behavior there. My daughter sits on a stool from behind that bedroom window and checks to see which neighborhood kids are outside playing. My kids escape to those rooms where four walls and a window become whatever they need them to be.
To me, it's another room to tidy up before my husband gets home from work. To my kids, it's their first safety net and intellectual launch pad. So I've got to be careful.
My mind is the gate to how I see my life, my children, my home. To me, it's another thing to regulate. To my family, it's a tone-setter for right now and coming very soon. So I've got to be careful.
Comments