So there are some water bottles to wash in the sink, dishes to put away, floor mats to dunk in the drawer.
I hear the washing machine beeping.
There is always laundry. Always.
A stray Nerf gun on the couch. A box of Jenga on the floor.
It’s 12.32am and I’m giving myself 15 minutes to write. Just 15, before my OCD kicks in and I have to get our house ready for homeschool tomorrow. Yes, I am absolutely into that Clean Desk Clean Mind thing.
You will understand if you have a toddler holding onto your leg crying for an apple and breakfast and you’re losing 20 seconds because the peeler and a whole lot of stuff wasn’t washed the night before.
But they’re still little.
She has to be taught the refrigerator isn’t a room where you can open the door, draw up a chair and put up your two years old feet to cool.
He’s five and he tries and he’ll still miss that foam bullet in front of the kitchen sink so I can step on it and jump three feet high thinking it’s a lizard.
He’s eight with an awesome tender heart and still be afraid of things that go bump in the dark.
She’s ten and like a little mama herself to the rest of the crew and we still cuddle in bed and I’ll stroke her forehead.
The laundry won’t be there for always.
Not all of 10 kilos.
I have often thought having four children is the best cure for OCD. They make it impossible to keep up.
Actually just one kid does the job.
So dig your heels in deep and hold on tight, mama.
Breathe in their littleness. Smell their hair and hold their hands and pray over them all the blessings Father God promises them and thank Him a thousand can flow to them right through you.
Because of you.
I’ll tell myself that the next time I think I’ve stepped on a lizard.