The Little Things

by Sheila J. Petre - Used by permission

    

Sometimes I weary of the little things, the relentless role of referee, Isaiah in our bed at two in the morning, Isaiah back downstairs at two in the afternoon, the sticky cake-sprinkle containers, the memory game with only two matching sets left, Laurel's endless "What should I do now?", the plugged vacuum cleaner hose, the little notch in the silverware drawer where Rachael sawed a knife against it, a broken fingernail clippers, the burp cloths in the drawer I used to keep the candles in, promising gladly to do something only to find myself under Michael's disapproval, losing the checkbook, losing my temper.  I used to be able to keep them both so nobly!  Stuffing size-one baby clothes into the drawer still too-full with newborn sleepers, reading thirty-seven books in one week, including Flicka, Ricka, Dicka Bake a Cake nine times, putting thirty-seven books back on the shelf for the second time in one morning, the three uncut threads dangling from the end of the sleeve of a dress I sewed eighteen months ago, not being able to afford boneless skinless chicken breast, the marbles which nobody but Allegra can find, being asked where to find scissors when they have six pairs and two are right under their noses, being asked what I'm doing when I'm kneading bread, the cracked highchair tray, feeling guilty for buying disposable diapers, Joshua's thumb where his broccoli should be, the drain-catcher full of flotsam right after I took out the slop...so many things I can do something about and so many things I can't...

 

"When people like me tell you children are only in your home briefly, believe them!" wrote an older mother in a letter I got yesterday. And this younger mother presses her hands together and squeezes her eyes shut but it doesn't send the prayers further or keep the tears back.

 

Sometimes Michael, in a few simple sentences, explains five difficult verses in the book of Romans; sometimes I walk across the floor with Allegra, esteeming the weight of an entire person in my arms, sometimes Isaiah really does go potty in the potty chair, sometimes both of Joshua's dimples show at once, sometimes Laurel asks a question which proves she understood that Bible story, sometimes I look into Rachael's eyes and she giggles, and I take a step back and crack the only pink cup we had left and it doesn't matter.

 

I sit down with my nursing baby and write down all the little things I weary of, pause a moment, and add a few things to balance those, reassured by the way the scale tips sharply in Motherhood's favor; at how little a sticky cake-sprinkle container weighs.

 

I write these things for the days these children, here such an endless briefly, are gone and I can read both lists and find them both positive, transformed by the perspective of the years. Perhaps then I will press my hands together again--and be wise enough to cry.