I vaguely remember my typical morning routine in BCE days [Before Children Existed, or before they existed as my flesh and blood anyway].
I distinctly remember the sun always shining and soft music playing in the background. The smell of cinnamon buns would arouse me from my peaceful slumber. I would roll to my side and look through the white lace curtains to the bluebirds chirping happily on my windowsill. I would stretch leisurely on satin sheets, and then stroll to my closet where I would select the day’s apparel from rows of neatly pressed, stain free, designer clothing. When I was ready, I would step under the shower where I would have felt every muscle relax, except that BCE I never had tense muscles!
Things have changed! Throw a toddler into a typical morning routine and there becomes a sense of urgency where getting something as simple as showering still means always expecting the unexpected.
My typical morning routine now goes something like this:
I’ve already made two trips to schools and dropped off the four older boys. To say I am a carpool fashionista is putting it mildly. My carpool attire is frightening enough to be to be its own post. I decide that before I see anyone else, I better shower.
I gather some toys I think will occupy Kaleb and park him in a spot where he should be happy. Except that he’s a two year old and never stays still for long.
I grab whatever looks clean enough from my closet carefully avoiding all the neatly folded jeans on the bottom shelf. Those are my pre-Kaleb jeans, my I-used-to-weigh-25-pounds-less-than-I-do-now-and-I-know-I’m-going-to-fit-into-them-again jeans, my “I have a dream…” jeans.
I grab the sweatshirt off the chair by the door. If I scrape the ground in Lucky Charms (I don’t even like Lucky Charms!) off the shoulder it too is clean enough.
I undress quickly and step on the scale, realize I still have my ponytail holder in, and take that out knowing every little bit counts. I weigh myself three times hoping that if I place my feet in different positions or shift my weight a bit I’ll get different results. I don’t.
I hop in the shower and duck under the spray just as the bathroom door flies open sending an arctic gust my way. I peer cautiously around the shower door.
“Truck Kaleb?” I ask trying to see him and still huddle under the hot spray.
“Uh-huh,” He runs out the door.
“Kaleb,” I yell through chattering teeth, “Shut the door!”
He darts back in and looks at me in confusion.
“Shut the door honey,” I coax.
Another quizzical look.
“Come on sweetie. Shut the door.” I use my hands to mimic a shutting door. Spray flies out of the shower hitting the floor, walls, and my once dry clothing.
He lifts his truck for me to see better.
“Uh, nice cutie pie,” I grumble and step out of the shower. Water pools on the floor. I become Stretch Armstrong and lean over to shut the door myself.
I can literally see the lightbulb go on in Kaleb’s head.
“SHUT DOOR!” he yells finally understanding. He reaches over and yanks open the door (another icy blast hits me as I hurry to finish only what I absolutely must in the shower). Because I am a slow learner, I peek around the shower door to look at my son. He looks at me proudly and throws all his 23 pounds into the bathroom door slamming it shut as hard as he can. I duck back into the shower thinking foolishly that I can escape the cold wind the slamming door brings.
The towel rack I hung without checking for studs shakes on the wall.
“Shut door!” he grins at me yanking open my shower door.
“Yes, Kaleb,” I groan, “Shut door. Good boy.”
This process is repeated until I give up and tell myself long hot showers are overrated and finally get out.
Yet somehow, I don’t miss those BCE days. You know, I can’t remember once waking to cinnamon buns waiting for me. I didn’t get curtain rods until someone else pushed the issue, and, now that I think of it, those bluebirds were actually crows.
It’s funny how the past can be so idealized that we can miss the joys of today.
I’ll take my grinning two year old happily showing me his “crucks!” and opening and closing doors any day!
I mean, really, isn’t that what being a mom is all about? Thank you Jesus.