We sit on the sidewalk together, pink sidewalk chalk in hand, drawing circles and letters and stick figure family portraits. They dream up silly stories to match the silly drawings and laugh together like they are in on the very best secret. And then something shifts and they are wrestling in the grass, screaming and fighting, one pulling the others’ hair, neither willing to give up her ground.
These are our days. Our days that begin mostly on their terms as they move and they stir, rubbing their sleepy eyes awake with the sun. Our days begin whether I feel renewed or not, whether I slept or not, whether I am ready for it or not, but they arrive nonetheless. That is the thing about days, they come and they go and they each last twenty-four hours, every single one.
Our days are filled to the brim with everything and nothing, magnificent and mundane within the very same breath.
The two-year-old and the four-year-old and the nine-month pregnant belly demand just about everything I have to offer these days, and sometimes a little more than that. And so we do our days with the rhythm of the sun and with the rhythm of our family, together as we encounter what each day needs. Imaginations go wild, dreaming up a rocket ship landing in the living room to take the princesses away from the castle. Little hearts vie for independence, clashing against structures or directions or stubborn rules that prevent them from slamming toys against each other. Pouring juice, pouring out the blocks, pouring myself out for them again and again and again.
That is what parenting is all about, isn’t it? Pouring yourself out for the sake of another who needs you, whether you have more to give or not. Pouring yourself coffee, pouring your love over them, pouring praise and confidence and bravery over scared hearts. Pouring the snacks, pouring discipline and redirection and time-outs, pouring the coffee once again.
As one day closes and another day opens and no matter what we encounter, we pour ourselves out and we carry on. No matter how difficult a day might be, no matter how much we worry, no matter how much we lost our temper over that one thing, we keep going.
Because here is what I know to be true about days: They all pass. Each time a day ends, a new one begins, carrying with it the chance for renewed strength. When this new day begins, we have the opportunity to either repeat or change. With each new day, we can learn our lessons and capture these moments and keep the good and chuck out the bad, or we can hold onto the hard.
As we interact with our days, the ones that hold all of the things, I discover my need for anchors to keep me from simply drifting from one day into the next. I find my anchors in little moments, both magnificent and mundane. Anchors like watching them run through the sprinklers in the backyard, chocolate smeared across her cheeks following an afternoon treat, catching them cuddling on the couch as they flip through a book. Anchors that fasten me to a day no matter how hard it might be or how quickly it flies.
I don’t want to be so weighed down by the demands of the day and the demands of the children and the patterns of busy that I miss these moments within these days. And so even when I’m at the end of myself, even when a bowl of yogurt has been thrown across the kitchen wall, even when I feel not good enough, I remind myself to open my eyes for one of these anchors. Within the daily rhythms and routines and necessary spontaneity and complete and total meltdowns, there just might be a moment within the hard that reels you in, anchors your heart, and helps you take that next step.
Because the days go by and the minutes fly, and suddenly a year has passed. It is morning and then it is night. It is Sunday and then it is Friday and it is January and then it is November and another year is gone.
And these little moments that we have with them, these little sighs in time, suddenly feel so very big.
Because these days are hard and magnificent and everyday ordinary but they are ours. These moments are big and they are small but they keep us from simply drifting from one day into the next.
And if today is a day where you need to squint in order to find any sort of anchor, it’s okay.
Tomorrow is a new day.
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