Some days it’s the inmates who take charge of the asylum. Most assuredly the days that you have a large project… say, creating a website encapsulating the sum of your existence and livelihood. Then, yes, THEN… the sisterly love becomes less evident. The voices and arguments louder. The deadlines you have overlooked until this point loom precariously and must be overcome. The neighbors pop by for an impromptu playdate. You have bananas blackening on the counter that must be made into chocolate chip-studded muffins or perish. The laundry is piling up higher than at least two of your children and the floors are dusty enough to trace your name in.
Life. If you can’t laugh at it, then you’ll probably cry. Planning is an open invitation for celestial ridicule. If you don’t take a moment to appreciate the tiny moments of magic that occur in the face of all the flashing lights of reality, you may never realize they exist at all.
And out of all of the aforementioned woes, that would be the only tragedy.
The tiny moments.
Moments like my nearly four-year-old bringing me coffee (“with NO sugar!”) from the playroom kitchen after thoughtful preparation, more carefully than most restaurants I have patronized. Or when my two oldest are spotted, hand in hand, on the back porch early in the morning when I emerge from my shower, with the excuse that they were “chasing away birds” from the newly planted grass seed, “but quietly, so we don’t wake Daddy.” Or dropping off AND picking up my six-year-old from Kindergarten with her nose decidedly stuck in a classic children’s novel as she absorbs it, eyes lit up with wonder.
Or seeing the string of geese flying over the trees in our backyard. Or the stars dotting my morning run, along with the spotted jet lights that skip jaggedly across the constellations. Or my husband detailing my vehicle with surgical precision and hurrying off to work overtime with enough leeway to vote beforehand.
It is these little things, these moments of insanity, these small moments of magic that make this unpredictable, harried, impossible life not only livable, but extraordinary. That give you the belly chuckle even when you would give a kidney (or two) for absolute silence for even 60 seconds. That give you glimpses into the brilliant young women the inmates–er, your daughters–are to become, and how very lucky you are (even when you are considering a strong shot of bourbon shortly after 3 in the afternoon.)
The individual, unknown, and original tapestry that is your own. Insane or not, generated by someone “sane” or not so much… this is my life. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.