Bittersweet

I have four children.  Four relatively small children
And for the past few years – especially the last year or so –
I haven’t been able to do much more than keep my head above water.
(Sometimes I haven’t even done that well.)

My house is often a disaster.
I forget to do things.
I miss meetings.

When the children are awake and home, my mind is on fast-forward.
Just trying to keep up with who is where and which child is doing what.
One-Two-Three-Four. One-Two-Three-Four. One-Two-Three-Four.
(I constantly count.)

But right this minute – this very minute –
they are all playing happily and quietly together.
(And they have been for a long time.)

I was able to make bread and do the dishes and a load of laundry.
With not even one interruption.
No one cried or complained.
No one needed a diaper or a drink.
No one attached themselves to my leg.

And this isn’t a fluke.
It’s beginning to happen more often.
And while I miss the teeny tiny baby phase,
this new phase is ridiculously freeing.

The impossible is becoming possible.
For me and for them.
And it’s exciting for us all.

A Lincoln Log is plopped down in my lap
And I peer down to find big eyes and wild hair.
Something crashes and someone cries.
“Mooooommmmmeeeeee”

We are almost here.
And it’s bittersweet.
But mostly sweet.