Sunday, April 7, 2013

It Happens in the Mundane

I've been reminded lately how life happens in the mundane moments, the ones we're not necessarily paying attention to.

If we stop paying attention, stop being present, we stop living.

Thursday is always my longest work day of the week, and when I got home, I laid myself down on the couch for a moment's break before leaving again for a church meeting.  My husband left to pick up our daughter from a friend's house, and my son started asking me to work a puzzle with him.  I didn't want to.  Laying sedate on that old, gross couch felt blissful.

So I had a choice, and I got up from the couch.  This is not always the choice I make, but on Thursday I got up.  We worked the Boba Fett puzzle, the same one that is currently in "toy jail" to my left for being left out for too many days.

This weekend, I was overtaken by one of those intense streaks of needing to rid our house of clutter.  I focused my energy on my kids' room and started throwing things out.  The dog had pissed on my son's bed twice in one day, and I was disgusted by the whole thing so was tearing through the room throwing things away and bleaching anything that could be bleached.  I was doing all of this with a fractured elbow.

At one point, I heard myself say, "Kids, you better put your stuff away before I get to it because if I get to it first, it's going in the garbage."  Granted, I was throwing out the plethora of random items like neglected bags of birthday party favors and broken bits of plastic, but my daughter took me seriously.  She got upset.

At one point, I asked her to put away a new pair of shoes, and instead of putting them away, she left them in the hallway next to the closet where they belong.  I got upset by this sloppiness and started lecturing.  She reacted by rolling her eyes at me.

She rolled her eyes at me.

I got more upset at this oh-so-American mannerism that she has learned at school and sent her to her bed so I could cool off.  She cried, and cried, and cried.

I came back in her room a few minutes later, and we never quite talked about it. I was too busy.  We sort of got over it, but not really.

So tonight before bed, I asked her how she felt on Saturday when we got so mad at each other.  She shrugged and said, "That you wanted to give me away."

Our daughter is on the surface so secure with our family.  Everyone remarks on this fact of how well-adjusted we all are.  I forget, I forget, I forget.  She hasn't been with us that long.  Under her iron will and muscle, she is fragile.  She worries I will want to give her away.

I tell her it's not true.  I made her look me in the eyes tonight so I could remind her that we will never give her away, not ever, that we love her and are so proud she is our daughter.  She seems unconvinced, so I ask for hugs.  I use my broken elbow as an advantage, telling her that I can't squeeze hard and need her to do most of the hugging.  She squeezes me, and I rest my cheek on top of her head.  I kiss one cheek and ask to kiss the other since it is so "nice and squishy."  She lets me.

She and I need to put together our own Boba Fett puzzles.

2 comments:

  1. I like this so much.
    I need to have that talk with B.

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  2. I love this. Glad to hear you have a child with squishable cheeks too. :)

    ReplyDelete