Most days, I am so busy I maintain a constant pep talk in my head just to get through it. It sounds something like this “leave work by 3—HAS to be 3 today, don’t start anything new after 2:30. Ok, 2:45. If I hit all green lights, I should be able to get Clayton and the big kids home by 3:45, how am I going to get that bike ride in that I promised Claire? I have to wash that load of darks because Lucy has silly sock day at preschool and her polka dot princess socks are dirty. Do we have enough cheese to have tacos for dinner? Grace needs to be at swimming by 6 and Sam’s baseball practice starts at 6:30. Will Chad be home in time for me to leave the little ones? Maybe I can bike around the ball field while Sammy practices. Don’t forget to pick up the Schmidt girls for carpool to swim team. Oh man, did I finish that capital budget? Oh wait, that’s not due until Thursday. Remember to send Phil an email—wait, just do it now. Crap now it’s 3:15. Scratch bike ride. PB&J for dinner it is….” Etc. etc. Most days, to quote a saying I feel I should tattoo on my wrist (right under my omnipresent watch): “I’m so busy, I don’t know if I found a rope or lost my horse.” So, to return to the subject of this post, most days I don’t have time to think much about what I’m doing. I only have time to do it.
But days like today bring me up short. Really, what happened to that cheery, plump baby girl with the funny stick uppy black hair and huge blue eyes? How did she go from the tireless toddler we were constantly rescuing from the tops of tables and counters to a very grown up little lady who combs her own hair and brushes her own teeth? There are still hints of that sparkly baby girl we called the “taz” for her constant, somewhat destructive energy. But she is growing up. No doubt about it.
This morning it occurred to me that perhaps the fact that my mind and body remain in nearly constant motion right now is not just a symptom of my overscheduled life. I think if I stopped long enough to really understand what I have undertaken the weight of it would crush me. How can I presume to hold these precious lives in my careless hands?
I looked at Claire this morning and felt that exquisite, agonizing wrestling match of joy and sorrow struggling for dominance in my heart. I’m joyful at the beautiful girl I’m sending into the world, joyful at her rambunctious good health, her easy cheerfulness, her bright inquisitiveness. But I’m sorry for all the ways I have failed her, all the hours I have missed out on with her, all the times I’ve been abrupt and busy and overwhelmed. Did I give her all she needed? You don’t get those years back. Once gone, they’re gone.
I generally don’t regret having a large family. I think a sibling is the greatest gift a parent can give a child and sweet Claire has the best of both worlds in some ways—smack dab in the middle of our clan—a sister and a brother above and below. She gets all the protection and guidance of older siblings and the ability to lead and cuddle with the little ones. She gets all of the drawbacks of both as well, the bullying from the biggers, the annoyance of the littles. And she’s a classic middle child in some ways—going along and getting along in her happy way. Days like this, though, when the other lives fade into the background, and she’s thrust into the family spotlight, the mommy guilt sets in a bit. I wonder if I have done her justice along the way, or if I have shoved her in with the pack and assumed her needs were met since she never said otherwise. On the daily treadmill of shoe tying, diaper changing, milk pouring, laundry folding did I miss out on something I shouldn’t have?
I know, of course I know, that the answer is no. Or at least probably not. I’ve loved her well. I’ve cared for her spirit along with her precious body. Claire is not only strong, smart, and healthy, but she has a delightful personality and easy charm, and she’s beautiful to boot. What more could a mom ask? I’ve also been at this game long enough to know that the best I can do for my kids is stay out of their way. I can’t take much credit for the wonderful things Claire is. She came to me that way. All I can do is try to keep her safe and warm, fed, and reasonably clean. And loved. I hope she always knows she is very, very loved.
In the end, I am glad Claire is part of a big pack. I think it is good for her to have a big sister and brother to explain the complicated procedures for lunchtime and recess, to ease her fears about making friends and learning to tie her shoes. And I’m glad she has a little sister to gaze in adoration as she pulls on her uniform skirt and packs up her bookbag, and a little brother to throw matchbox cars at her and make us all laugh and forget about being so terribly serious. I’m glad to have a job to go to, where the demands of the day to day will help me from wandering down the sentimental road of an incredible 6 years with an incredible little girl I get to keep in my arms and in my home for a whole lot of years yet. There’s time for lots more magical mommy moments and family adventures. There’s still time.
And right about now, I bet Claire is laughing and playing—hurling herself into kindergarten with the kind of all-in enthusiasm that makes her so completely Claire. Goodness do I love you, CC Guken. You fill me right up. Look out kindergarten. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
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