I always thought that I loved it.
A fresh coat of a paint.
A hair cut.
New home. New job. New clothes. New experiences.
New. New. New.
New on every superficial plane is acceptable, exciting even.
New and on my terms, within my will, even better.
But it’s the beyond my control, subtle shifting that gets me. Every. Time.
It’s how motherhood came along and moved every emotion one side-step to the left, leaving me weepy watching a commercial for sour cream or up late at night worrying the thousands of small mistakes I made throughout the day, (mistakes that will most definitely lead my children down paths of destruction and ruin.)
It’s the thousands of ways I am different than I was ten years ago, five years ago, five days ago, this morning.
It’s the growing pains that never stop. It’s letting go of every perfect vision I had of being a mother who sits patiently, listens quietly, loves tenderly and knows every answer at every moment.
It’s giving into feeling blindfolded and blown about in the blizzard through the wilderness that motherhood actually is.
We’re remodeling our bathroom and I am thinking of life before children.
I’m thinking of how we painted and decorated our first condo, how we spent long late nights wandering Home Depot and early mornings with paint-stained hands sipping coffee over omelets at a local diner. Daydreaming. Creating, together, something new. Something nice.
Now, we are changed. Now, every nice thing is subject to a short lifespan. A lifespan smudged with fingerprints and marked by the rips and stains and general abuse of surviving, day to day, in this small space with these small people.
The vanity we chose is a calculated risk. It is white and clean and I cringed and yelped the first time I passed the opened bathroom door to see Asher’s naked bottom perched on it’s marble top, reaching down to wash his hands.
Naked bottom. Marble counter.
This seems to sum up my life.
I know that this is a season that will pass. I know that before long, my house will be far too quiet and my walls far too clean. I know that there will come a day when no one will splash the tub water all over the bathroom floor and I won’t have anymore cereal crumbs to sweep.
I know that life is change. And I know that someday, we will again have long weekends to spend creating new, beautiful spaces, complete with things that won’t have the fluff pulled out of them or drinks spilled all over them, or fingerprints.
Oh. The fingerprints.
It kills me already to know how deeply I will miss them.