Today I pile dirty clothes – whites, darks, lights. Fold. Feed hungry mouths. Wish my sister-in-law a happy belated birthday.
I fold more.
Dishes pile until I store clean plates, bowls, and glasses. Plates, bowls and glasses that will be dirtied in a few hours.
Kids need attention. We decorate, hanging streamers, red and blue. We listen to “America the Beautiful” and other music. It is, after all, the 4th of July.
Seth says, “It’s American’s birthday,” jumping from the couch over and over and over until it is lunchtime. I throw food on the table. Yesterday’s rejects. Hungry again, we eat, then clear dishes.
Kids need more attention.
I break out water colors and they paint stars while I mix flour, yeast, salt and water into smooth stretchy dough. Stars are soon abandoned as small hands come to help me knead and punch.
They delight in it.
I pause, noticing bright eyes and smiles, and I remember to count the moments of this ordinary day. I want them to pile up, like my laundry and dishes, but each one is gone in an instant. All I can do is receive each one. I close eyes and silently thank, then back to rolling, and pulling and punching dough.
Only now, I delight in it too.