There are days, as I wash baby poop off my hands, or help my not-quite-four-year-old regain control after a body thrashing tantrum, when I long to be working more, parenting less. Enmeshed in day-to-day drudgery, I empty and load the dishwasher, again. I pick up their toys for the 10th time that day, and fold another load of laundry. I want to escape.
And then, ever-so-gently, I remind myself that I am on borrowed time.
I watch my one year old as he squeals with delight–he has discovered how to walk across the room pushing a stool. Noticing me, he rewards me with an ear-to-ear, heart melting grin.
Less than an hour later, my daughter does a spontaneous happy dance because I tell her she can wear her dress-up clothes to the grocery store.
How incredibly lucky am I to bear witness to such unfettered joy?
I hug them both, breathing them in and reminding myself how quickly they are changing. How little time, like this, we really have. I count my blessings. And my heart fills with gratitude, that in this moment, the work that I am doing is right here.
And it is the most important work of all.