Jelly stuck to placemat, plate not put away; peanut butter on counter. Kleenex wrinkled and wet. Last nights ice cream dish dried in sink. Laundry piled, diapers stacked, shoes and hairbows dot the floor.
Bible book brought to lap; baby arching tired; Mommy reach for microwaved coffee. Morning has begun.
I read a blog soon after Camilla was born, its words a blessing to my soul, illustrating and capturing the phrase I needed to know, to hold, to hear: The Hidden Years. She wrote about these little years, these years of mommy at home. These years of training and teaching, intention and being all-in. Alert and available, heart owned and overseeing the home.
Hearing these words helps my heart rest, and refines my circles, my compass, my spheres. It arches a boundary over my home, protecting my people like a canopy within. It lets other commitments wander, other callings set to the wayside for this season, this little nestling of life.
I've had years of dreaming for this, these days with little people, with big milestones. Dreaming of first steps and sand toys and sippy cups. Of swing sets and Rosie dolls and stacks of board books. Daddy dates and Disney and days adventuring in-between.
These years with daily text-pictures, lunchtime Oreos family-shared. Silly sayings and cocked eyebrow faces. Sprinklers run through and tubby I-spy games ensued. Nap time snuggles and quiet-time screams.
When these Littles fill my lap, nothing else will. They fill every space of my skin, overflowing with arms and legs and hair. Like they fill my home, they billow into my schedule, my phone time, my space. They bulldoze my me-time and rumple my friendships. They squeeze what I have into their hearts and come back, asking for more. More of me, more of their mommy.
These are hard years, these hidden years. They are years of lonely time, without ever being alone. Years of kitchens never cleaned and toilets circled rings. Toddler tantrums and babies awake in the night. Years of so many questions, googled through confusion. So much need and so humbling to receive it.
The Hidden Years, tucked quietly (or not so) within my home. Years only Mark and I know, only we see. Oh he and I, and the kids, share.
Years I don't want to miss. People I don't want to miss. I want to be present, engulfed in them. Raptured by their sense of roller-coaster, remembering the cuddles and the crazy become norm. These are my people, these are our years, our Hidden Years.
~ ~ ~ ~
I've had my adventures -- oh! planes to Scotland and dancing in Spain! Teaching with wild fire and passion and purpose. Surely, in my weakness or my remembering, my old-self protrudes, and all I used to be bubbles forth, but doesn't remain... As much as sometimes I miss, I yearn, I crave, I long for the quiet of coffee and bakery cafes, adult conversation and the controlled life I once ordered... I wouldn't trade them for these years, these hidden years...
