If you stare at something long enough it will blur. The haze will stay until you blink, clear your view, and look again.
I have been a mom for 17 years, six months and one day, I’m still caught off guard at the job of this.
I will sign a paper or get asked a big question or straighten the seam of a sock that oh.my.gosh is about to make someone’s toe fall off and see the little or not so little person in front of me and wonder if they were not just plopped here, right in front of me, all arms and legs.
Have these blonde and brunette and stubborn and kind people really changed so seamlessly each day that they’ve tumbled into little and medium and big? Where was I? Did I see it? Every subtle change that turned babies in my arms to people talking and tugging and asking?
Days full of shuffling under feet, climbing over arms bleed together. Cereal. Missing gloves. School pick up. Refereeing. Bedtime. Do-it-all-again.
So much blur, so much move faster, we’re late, come onnnn guys.
Somewhere in the keep going of it all there is growing happening and where am I? Am I here doing the little so I don’t always see the big? I see them but I don’t until they are sleepy-headed right in front of me, standing four feet taller than the day they entered their own world.
I set down my coffee and take them in from head to toe.
Blue eyes look at mine and I know they came from me. The curve, the color, I see myself.
I blinked and they were 5 and he was 3 and she was 17 and I am the mom, trying to hurry up and slow down and focus but not close my eyes for too long because I could miss something that’s been happening all along.
As our day begins I step consciously from one moment to the next, careful not to miss this one in the blur.
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