I’m sat here holding clammy hands, one sock up, one sock down…
I see floating clouds, tress in the breeze and I’m hoping I don’t drown. Scrunched up tissues scatter the floor, whilst laundry gets taller by the door. Soon I will grab a spoonful of honey, to help poorly throats, which the kids think is funny.
For now I am thinking of all I should do, but I know I wont get done. Intentions of getting ahead are gone and here I am, singing another love song.
I sit here and sigh, breathing in strawberry scented hair, whilst silently whispering that this isn’t fair. legs hang off shoulders, hands hang onto legs, I quickly finish my toast before “mama!” is said.
Yet I know without doubt that this is where I will stay, we will hug, we will love, I will hope that they play. Next to them, next to them, next to them - next to me. For there is really nowhere else, that I am meant to be.
The days have been long, so long they don’t end, tea gets cold and soup bubbles over, staining the pan once again. It feels like Groundhog Day, day after day, after day. We should try to get up, get dressed, to do but instead it is here we lay.
There are promises of later, getting up from our chairs and medicating ourselves with some wholesome fresh air. I’m absolutely certain that it would be good, Oh I know it really truly would. It will soothe our weary tethered souls, to get up and get out, instead of eating cheerios out of bowls.
Yet I know that we can’t manage it, so I put away our coats. I hang up our wellies, our jumpers and place down our paper boats. There is nothing else for it but to surrender to the now, the hum of the dryer and the furrowed little brows.
I know that when looking back, on these days in years to come, we will remember the hugs, the children sized mugs and being warmed by the afternoon sun. We will forget the sadness, the boredom, the whines, in fact all we will remember is a tangle of thighs.
And of course this is motherhood, warts and all, the ups and the downs, the flying, the fall. Crumpled pyjamas and hair in a bun, TV rerun after rerun and the next one to come. The things we have to put aside, the things we don’t get done, but look at those big blue eyes and the way they hold your thumb.
Season after season we relive these poorly days, of sitting on the sofa waiting for it to go away. But then one day we wake and we open the windows wide, suddenly we are better, there is no more need to hide.
We pull on our socks and sandals, we pack our backpacks high, we happily run outside, as we fly our kites in the sky. Hibernation is forgotten, as we return with muddy knees and after a few weeks of non stop doing, we wish for a sick day pretty please.
The good old ways of motherhood, of wishing time would slow. But also wishing it would hurry up, Oh no, Oh no, Oh no. It’s hard to be in the moment, especially a moment not planned but sit with me on my sickbed and I will sit with you in the sand.
And again just like the seasons, we turn from grey to green and we carry on regardless, of whether we are seen. We are the rock that steadies the others, the string that keeps us all tied. We are forever pouring outwards, we try, we are trying - we tried.
Because no matter where you find us, we are together wherever we roam, flowers don’t bloom without showers and we will always find our way home. So gather the blankets, the cushions, the iPads, or run barefoot down the dunes. Give us the ordinary, or extraordinary moments but don’t let it pass too soon.
So let us rest into it’s heaviness, let us lean into it’s ease. Because together, wherever, is where we will be, we heal, we soothe, we see. As I watch another tea get cold, I smile and then I think - of all the other mothers doing the same and I swim instead of sink.