Some days when I walk into Panera – my other office – I think about how ordinary my life feels. How there don’t seem to be Instagram-worthy moments between the car seats and the goldfish crackers and the exact same route walked every single day to pick up Jackson from first grade. Life can be small when we live it in the same pattern over and over and over again Monday to Monday.
The things I want to write about are small too. There is Zoe’s belly and how I could write a book about her eyelashes. How she backs up into me and sits her little diapered bottom down on my lap with authority. How she leans back into me and looks up at me the upside down perspective highlighting the blue blue core of her irises.
She leans back with her bottle pushed into the corner of her mouth and watches me as she gnaws at it. The world stops. So many cliches come true with a daughter. I softly stroke back gentle golden wisps from her forehead. I still haven’t taken her for a first hair cut. I’m lingering in this last baby phase. Her car seat smells of leftover snacks. I’m OK with that.
My life loops small, familiar circles around the same topics and I’m OK with that too.
So I do it. I record the seemingly small things; I write down the non events.
Else I will forget them. Else I will only remember the blur. Not how her voice sounded when she called me first thing in the morning. Or how stinky baby feet can smell through baby socks. I write down how she got done with her high chair seemingly over night and how it’s an act of courage for me to seat that crazy baby in a big chair knowing how closely her toes teeter to the edges. She laughs. My word how she laughs. Full bellied, full of life and we all laugh with her.
The dog chews at the chair legs no matter how much I reprimand him and the baby laughs wild and launches herself at us both.
I write down the rut and the routine and peel back the corners of wonder. This every day worship. This holy wash, rinse and repeat. This so much sameness that no one would think to look twice. My Instagram reads like a love letter to the preschool years and I’m OK with that.
I am. I am becoming OK with that.
And you? And you with the three day sweat suit, the pony tail, the smudged mascara. We can be OK together. We can revel in our in betweens and write them down with so much tired love because if we don’t we won’t know how much it all meant. This collective sleep deprivation, this trying to figure out the math homework. This heating up leftovers. This time of still believing in the tooth fairy.
We write it so we can look back and fall in love with it all over again.
Slowly. Deliberately. Extraordinarily.