Sunday, March 13, 2016
Monday. Just Monday.
I'm writing this on a Sunday night. I have two twelve year olds in my Jacuzzi tub, living it up like they're at a spa and a four year old running around tooting because he's officially entered the Body-Functions-Are-Hilarious stage of childhood. We had a good, nicely paced weekend and it's that time of Sunday night where I think forward to the six days that lie ahead. The time changed last night and daylight just now disappeared after what seemed like many extra hours and we sat out on the deck and enjoyed the cool air and loved it all.
Tomorrow is Monday.
I don't want it to be just another Monday. No blahs, no icks, no yucks. I just don't want it to be that way. I don't want it to be a day of blues or humdrums. No gray. No bland flavors. No counting the hours until Tuesday. No spinning my wheels. No there-has-to-be-more-than this. No flat soda life day. I want the bubbles and carbonated butterflies in my tummy about life.
I want Monday to be neon. Like Cyndi Lauper meets Vanilla Ice meets black light skate night. I want it to be shiny and blinding. I want it to be one big infomercial for Bedazzle. Sequins and rhinestones. I want the feeling I feel when Man In the Mirror or Vogue comes on the radio. I want to turn the day up to eleven. I want wind in my not washed mom-hair and no stains on my tank top. I want a party in my heart. I want Monday 2.0.
It's a Monday I will never have again.
Never again will I wake up to the same small faces. Next Monday, they will be a little more mature looking. A little older. Bigger.
Never again will the exact questions they will ask me come out of their mouths. Next Monday, they'll know a little more and won't need those answers again.
Never again will I get the chance to kiss them in the exact moment of love that will wash over me because of their cuteness or their mischievousness or their fragility. Next Monday, I'll be captivated by something else about them and today's emotion will have been washed away and forgotten in the sea of six days that follow.
Never again will they need me quite this much. Never again will they want me this much.
Never again will I be tired for all the same reasons. Never again will I be this young. Nor will they.
Nor will our time together.
Next Monday, I will have scratched another week off my calendar, pushing them closer to being out my door and across the country from me. Sometimes, like when I walk across a sticky floor I just mopped or don't have a drop of hot water when I want to take a shower, this thought makes me gallop like a unicorn.
Tonight is not one of those nights.
I just want to make it count tomorrow. I want to immerse myself in the routine and the mundane because those are the moments when they're catching more than I am actually teaching. I want to have given myself to them through the sandwiches I make, the fights I diffuse, the laundry I wash, and the hurts I tend to. I want them to see Jesus in how I talk to people. I want them to recognize His nature in my demeanor and my zeal for the day. I want them to learn to wait like it's Christmas Eve for what He will do next because they saw expectancy for good in my every move, even on Mondays. But you know what? It's more than that.
I want to soak up Monday with my kids because I can.
I can touch them. Kiss them. Hold them. Laugh with them. Dance with them. Snuggle with them. Soak them up. Nibble on their ears and smell their cheeks. I can look in their eyes when they're talking to me and notice colors I haven't seen before. I can stare deeply at them and give myself a moment to be in awe of the fact that a few short years ago, my arms were empty. I can drop everything and play hide and go seek for ten minutes with them or demand we all stop and eat a bowl of ice cream right NOW. I can tell them to blow bubbles with their gum and then pop them on their faces. I can breathe them in. I can jump on the trampoline with them (after I put on an adult diaper because I pushed out said children and haven't jumped or sneezed without peeing a single time since). And at the end of all of it, I can tuck them in and sigh with relief that Monday was done well.
They are my Monday.
And because of that, I am going to put my feet on the floor tomorrow and choose to suck the life out of the day before it has the chance to suck the life out of me.
Welcome to Monday, Mommas. This one will come and go. Decide today to take a bite or two out of it. All these Mondays are flying by. A lifetime of Mondays.
Grab one and make it yours.