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Wednesday, February 26, 2014


I'm sitting here in my bedroom, in a faded blue rocking chair. Stains from three babies spitting up over my shoulder persistantly remain, despite a certain amount of scrubbing. Maybe, deep down, I don't really want them to go away. They tell the tale of incalculable hours of rocking, patting, singing and nursing.

As I sit here obstensibly reading, I find myself instead listening to the pows, grunts, faux yells and sneak-attack sounds emanating from the bathroom. My youngest came home restless and it seemed the perfect day for a luxurious oil bath. I love that he still carries two buckets full of "guys" in to the bathroom in preparation. I love that he creates elaborate storylines. He will sit in there even after the water has grown cold in order for his "story" to reach its full and proper conclusion.

There are days when I can literally feel time slipping through my fingers. My youngest is already twelve. In less than a year, I will have three teenagers. A year after that, my first child will turn twenty.

So I sit with my book in my lap and instead of reading, I listen. I may whine later that I don't have enough time to read, but my book will keep.

Kids won't.

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