There’ve been certain moments throughout history that have been witnessed by angels, trumpets, and soaring Hallelujahs.
The bounty of milk chocolate. The invention of indoor plumbing. Pencils, paper, and the internet. Cameras and music and the beauty of really great knives.
Then there are my personal hallelujah moments.
I wonder how many moms’ personal hallelujah moments have to do with laundry. If I were a betting girl, which I’m not, I’d lay odds that this one comes up quite a bit. My own laundry hallelujah moment came last month when I finally – finally – internalized that my children are not miniature versions of me. (Yeah, not really worthy of trumpets, right?) One of them in particular has not, does not, and will most likely never care if his clothes are neatly folded and arranged in his dresser drawers.
And on that great day I put it to rest with C’est la vie! Why would I bother to spend an hour folding everything neatly only to have those kids shove things haphazardly into nooks and crannies? So now they give us their dirty clothes, said clothes are washed and dried, then they get them back laid neatly in a basket. If they want to fold them before putting them away, great. If they want to simply stick them in a drawer, fine. Either way I’ve done my part to send them out into the world stank-free.
My place in the universe.
For years my life cultivated the perception that as mom I am the end all be all of, well, everything. I controlled snack availability, meal plans, clean clothes, and doctors’ appointments. I managed lunch accounts, field trip forms, and homework agendas as well as coordinating any extracurricular activities.
This year I’ve embraced the concept that not everything is my job. (A shocking theory, I know.) I am not Atlas; I’m not duty bound to bear the weight of the world on my shoulders. If something’s important to the kids then it always seems to get done. If not? Well, if a few things slip through the cracks here and there we’ll just call that a valuable life lesson.
No one can accuse me of being a germaphobe.
It’s a fine line, really, between clean freak and germaphobe. Unfortunately for BrightSide, I’ve never fallen into either of these categories. I’ve always hovered more around what I consider “regular” clean – a level that wouldn’t be embarrassing to me if, say, a neighbor needed to use the bathroom. Since Gracie and Phoebe have entered our lives I’ve come to embrace one very basic tenet of “regular” clean: a little dog hair never hurt anybody. This philosophy is mostly born of necessity because there’s not one blessed inch of dog hair free space in our home, but still…I think the principle holds true regardless.
Nobody ever starved from skipping dinner.
I think a lot of parents spend an inordinate amount of time focused on the food their child consumes. Too much meat? Not enough vegetables? Too many carbs? Overdosing on sugar? It starts from the high chair and doubles down from there. You need to ease up if you want to keep from driving yourself crazy. Kids eat when they’re hungry, their bodies crave the foods they need, and no one’s ever starved in the twelve hours between dinner and breakfast.
Some things sweeten even the best nap.
A rainy day. A throw that’s the perfect weight. A room that’s just a bit on the chilly side. But the sleep is always sweeter, longer, and deeper with a dog curled up behind my knees.