I live in the litany of the putting away. The clean dishes go onto shelves, forks and knives and cups and bowls. And the boys are waiting for their food, always waiting for food. I move from fridge to stove to sink to table, little circles.
Sometimes it's morning. I listen to the news in my pajamas. Oatmeal for one child. Cereal for another. I'm slicing an apple. I'm pouring a cup of milk. I'm cleaning up a spill. I'm reminding Brooksie that "our food does not go on the floor, little babes." I'm sipping coffee as I move around that room. I'm not frantic. But I know what needs to get done and my gut is begging me to feed it as well. Take bites. My mom always stood during breakfast too.
Sometimes it's lunch and the quesadilla has two sides: one swiped with spinach puree for the baby who doesn't notice green things yet. One plain for the boy who notices everything. "What vegetable would you like today?" I'm saying. He'd like to just once get away with no vegetable. Not in my kitchen! My head sings. And, it's true: I own this room.
Later, during naptime, there are dishes to wash and floors to sweep and counters to wipe or, possibly, to be left till later. Because, seriously, I need to get on Twitter.
And dinner, and after dinner: All those dishes. All those pans. When we were first married and living on my tiny fellowship in grad school, freezing in Syracuse winter with our heat set to 62, Chris and I stood together in the kitchen washing pans and drying them, washing plates and drying them. That next apartment in Philly had a dishwasher. It was a slice of glory. We filled it with wonder in our eyes. How easily I can forget that.
The other day, I was putting away a glass bowl: the kind that has held salad and cookie dough, a baking soda volcano and playdough mix and I thought: This is it. This is my life.
Granted, sometimes I can have that thought in the kind of way that leads me to cry in my pillow and take a long bath and rewatch the saddest scene in Little Women (you guys know what I'm talking about). But, sometimes, I have that thought and the light shines in through the window and the bowl sparkles and I think: Thank you, bowl, for the volcano and the endless supply of salads. Thank you for the chocolate pudding August and I made in our second apartment in San Francisco and the way he couldn't quite pronounce "choquate" then. Thank you for the endless circles I've scrubbed around you in every home Chris and I have shared for almost eight years. Thank you for the putting away and the getting out and the hope that I can always clean you. And in those moments when the bowl is good and the litany is good, I realize that my life is this in its most simplest form: these circles I'm moving in around the kitchen and around my day--from breakfast to play time to errands to the kitchen to nap time and writing time and play time and the sun shining down on us outside and back to the kitchen and food and my husband being home and the boys wrestling in the living room and bathing the boys and clean shiny skin and combing their wet hair down and pajamas and teeth brushed and stories read and bodies tucked in and moments with my husband on the couch and our own books and bedtime. And we do it over and over and over. And this is the shocker: That circle is good.
Because this is what I'm realizing: every night as I lay my baby down in his crib and sing the words, "I know that moons rise and time flies and sweet little boys get older..." I see him changing. Some moments I can stop the circling long enough to notice: the way he's smiling today, the joke he's trying to play on me, the love he's inheriting for books. And when I notice, that's when I remember to pray.
It's always about paying attention, I was thinking yesterday afternoon, stacking plates on top of one another, hoping not to wake the light-sleeping baby whose room shares a wall with the dishes. And that makes the circle more of a spiral, doesn't it? We're always circling, yes. But it turns out in all this doing and putting away and creating and consuming, we've been spiraling toward something all along.
And that spiral leads toward a glorious center, the place where God is making all the plain things beautiful and all the sad things untrue.