There’ll Be Days Like This

Mama said there’ll be days like this, there’ll be days like this, my mama said…

The line to this song swirls through my head as I complete the circus act of making four lunches, two snacks, my to-go breakfast, kid dinner and adult dinner, get kids up the stairs, teeth brushed, bath finished, books read, light turned off, clothes for tomorrow picked out and put downstairs, dinner dishes done, laundry switched, and, wow, yes, now I get to get in bed. Exhausted. Full of regret. Why did I not have one second more of patience with them? Why did I rush them to bed when these evening hours are really all I see them?

I am not a “new” mom. My oldest is 11, my youngest — twins  are 3. We have four children. Two full-time jobs. Ballet and baseball, book fairs, donuts with dad, field trips, Friday folders, and reading logs. There are many days like this. When the middle child purposely teases the twins to get my attention, because even negative attention is something. When the oldest cries, sulks, and hides in the tweendom of her disastrously messy room. When the twins find a Sharpie, Play-Doh, glitter, 1,000-piece puzzle, box of tiny craft beads, no matter where I hide them.

There’ll be days like this… when one silly toddler comment turns the tide of frustration and fury into love and silly sap. When they’ve accidentally left the freezer just barely open but it still melted and there’s water all over the floor and their “I’m sorry, mama, I’m sorry, mama” is more heartbreaking than the anger you feel at one.more.mess. to clean up. When baseball or ballet goes until 8 and there’s still dinner to eat and fractions to struggle through. When they cry to not take bath and cry to get out of the bath and cry to not read a book and cry when the book is over and cry for milk and cry when it’s not water and then you are crying too because nobody, nobody, ever said being a mother is the hardest thing you would ever do and yet never regret.

The tiny moments are the grace that saves the days like this. When fat fingers petting a cherished gray elephant lovey make you tear up at their sweetness. When my tiny twin girl runs around in her glittery princess dress, dancing like no one’s watching and singing like she’s on Broadway. My boys, unprompted, saying “I love you,” to each other. When my girl gives her brother her dessert. When my older son offers his money he’s saving for toys to pay for his sister’s field trip when he overhears me say how expensive it is to my husband. The twins when they snuggle together like puppies in front of Peppa Pig. My oldest daughter talking her little sister out of a tantrum and into her church dress. The big kids building LEGOs in peace, together.

There’ll be days like this, of course, most are days like this. But the far-between feeling love-filled seconds, the minutes, the sweet magic hours when each child fills my heart, they make up for the days that are so long. My heart aches to hold the little babies that have disappeared before my eyes in sleepless nights and snot noses, spit-up, and onesies, sleep sacks and crib bars. Despite the tears and tantrums, minute by minute has weighed into the heavier hours after hours, has cascaded into day after day, has mounted into month after month, and those little squishy bundles I could tuck beneath my chin have vanished. Every night they go to bed is one day further from the baby years. Right now, right this minute, they still fit in my arms. Days like this I miss already.