Little Loves

I love being a mother.  Even on days like today. When I’m surviving on fifteen hours of sleep over the past seventy-two hours of living (I realize some people do just fine on five hours of sleep a night – I am definitely NOT one of those people).  When I’m crabby and jump down my seven-year-old’s throat the minute he walks in the door from school, and I can’t seem to shake the angst for a good three hours.  When every time I turn around there are books and backpacks and toys and dirty socks all over the recently tidied floors and furniture.  When bedrooms and bathrooms never seem to get all the way clean unless I do it myself.  When the freshly washed and folded laundry never quite makes it in the dresser drawers.  When I hear “Mom! Erik pushed me!” or “Mom! Anna won’t get out of my room!” or “Mom!  Djeryd won’t let me win the game!”

Even when I am in the middle of all that I love it.  Perhaps I should rephrase that.  Now that the kids are sound asleep in their beds and I’ve had an hour or two of quiet – I love it.  I find I am happiest when I love it in the middle, too.  When I see two of my children rally around the one that is down.  When I take the time to listen to the little stories of their day that they choose to share with me.  When I see them write love notes to each other.  When we are trying to read family scriptures and they all want to talk and giggle and play.  When they help each other with jobs and homework so that they can go do something together.  When they forgive wholly and completely and quickly.

I guess seeing them love each other makes me love them more.  They teach me when I open my eyes and my ears and my heart, to see and to hear and to understand how to love a little better.