I wake a beat behind. A morning in sluggish motion with cereal and sandwiches requiring more attention than they deserve. A cold walk to school. Goodbye kisses rushed.
I return home to do the amount of daily required cleaning, laundry, and food preparations necessary to pacify my family. Lists and piles occupy my mind.
I pause and breathe deeply. I am overwhelmed by my insignificance. I impact only the world between the four walls in which I live, for the four people with whom I live. Nothing more.
I set down my pile and pick up the child reaching for me. His “hold you’s” supersede my “should-do’s.” I get on the floor and actually play. I smile at his musical words, uniquely made sounds from that tiny mouth. His body indents mine as we read.
I count his teeth; note the length and beauty of his lashes. I kiss his stomach and tickle his warm neck. I squeeze him a bit too tight and whisper time-stopping “I Love You’s.”
Infrequent are my insignificant days. My inability to revel in them pains me. I know their joy, yet feel their judgment.
I hear the voice telling me this isn’t enough. I hear it when I look beyond this, to the world outside. I hear What did you do all day?Why isn’t this done? What did you accomplish?
It’s my voice. I’m the accuser.
I cage my insecure monster of comparison.
I free myself with the truth all mothers know. These quiet days are blessed. These days — these moments — are a privilege.
I inhaled and loved my growing child today, I answer myself.
I look at his face and find my peace. I look in his eyes and see his world reflected. For today, I rest grateful in my significance to him.
Sonya Spillman is a lover of laughter, coffee, red lipstick and Jesus. She is a motherless mother who writes at spillingover.com to share herself with her kids, avoid paying for therapy, and give voice to a journey through grief, grace, and growth.