babies don't keep

Henry, one week, july '05

William, one week, october '07

Henry, 6 months, january '06

William, 5 months, march '08

Henry, 8 months, march '06

William, 10 months, august '08

Oh the things I love about these pictures. The newness of a newborn, the roly-poly thighs, the chubby cheeks, the big round eyes, the two tiny bottom teeth, the peeking from the crib, the grabbing of the feet.
Lately my life has felt at times mundane and exhausting. I feel as if I've cleaned up the kitchen a million times, wiped twice as many runny noses, mopped floors, wiped butts, cleaned sticky fingerprints off windows, scrubbed marker off walls, read a billion books aloud, filled a quadrillion sippy cups with milk, swept floors, picked up toys, dried tears and hollered "time out". Sometimes I feel like those things sum up my existence.
But then I look at my boys and at my babies. I realize that those times were fast. Babies don't keep and children grow too quickly. Can picking up toys throughout the day, wiping sticky syrup off the floor and trying to keep my white cabinets white really be as important as these moments that I get to spend with them?

I've decided that they cannot. At least not for me. When I'm older and our children are grown, we'll have a clean house. I'll clean it and then look around and be sad that no one is running through dropping things behind and leaving sticky fingerprints.

I have been far too worried about picking up. And while I do want a house that is somewhat neat and certainly sanitary, I know I want to look back at the years I have with our children and think about the fun we had together. The fun we had making messes with no intention to clean them right up. The fun we had staying home and just being together. Wearing pjs, dancing to music and building forts out of couch cushions. I want to sit and be quiet and listen to my children. I want to be patient with them as they learn new skills, like wiping their own bottoms (although this feels stressful to me). And then dance as we celebrate their own achievements. I want to be thankful for these times, no matter how mundane or tiring at times they feel. I am thankful that I am the one to wipe these little noses and dry their sad tears.

My mom sent me this poem, framed, what feels like so long ago.

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
for children grow up, we've learned to our sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

Henry was about six months old and I was having so much trouble getting him down for naps. I wanted to lay him in his crib and watch him magically drift off to sleep, but there was no magic. He screamed. Unless I was holding him or nursing him; he screamed. I felt like a failure. Why would my child not fall asleep like the books say? I cried about it to my mom, who in her wisdom told me to savor those moments and cherish those times. My son wanted only me and he needed me. I put the frame on the bookshelf next to the rocker in Henry's nursery, where it still sits. And now I realize the wisdom in those words.

Babies don't keep.

It's ok, I know that many wonderful times and memories lay ahead. But I want those three words to be a reminder to me, one I can whisper to myself. A reminder to slow down. To stop scrubbing. To leave the dishes until later. To listen to the children. To sit on the floor. To crawl around with tractors and trucks making vroom noises and wearing holes in the knees of my jeans. And when the boys are sick, or up all the night and needing me just to lay with them, I want to remember that it won't always be like this.