Most days are not made up of big words. There are little girls in their pink summer shoes who smile and say “hi” a hundred times because it’s the only word they know. There are boys who are as loud and rough and crazed as their sister is gentle. There is a dog and a hamster and a house that exhales with fresh paint and new tiles in places.
Most days are not poster-worthy or Pinterest-worthy.
Most days are rough around the edges and messy toward the end.
Most days are ringed in layers of ordinary stories that sound anything but ordinary because of the wonder of hearing them from a nearly-seven-year old.
Sometimes carpets get shampooed.
Sometimes all the dishes get washed.
Sometimes someone cries; sometimes we all scream at once and I wonder if being an empty-nester can be all that bad.
Most days are a rinse and repeat of the day before unless we bend down real close and get a good whiff of the moment. That bunk bed they still just fit into. That Verlander T-Shirt. That pair of black high tops and the four wrist bands he’s been wearing around his ankle for going on two months now. How he researches the dog. How she wrinkles her nose and exhales loudly.
This is my DNA.
Hardly worth writing down, so simple.
So utterly, riveting.
What have your most days looked like lately?