Afternoon

Everyday I aim to at least make the bed and wash the dishes. Then I've done something. The problem is that I also have back-of-the-brain demands, things that are givens--I don't have to write them on a list because they must be done for my sanity. Scripture study. Writing. Working out. Going on our daily walk. Maintaining clean floors and a clean toilet. These things do not always happen anymore (or they don't happen consistently or efficiently) and I'm learning that that's okay. I'm a list budgeter. I like to write down more to do than should be humanly possible then challenge human limitations. Gives me a rush, like leaving the grocery store with everything we need for the week and money left over.

Silly: I know.

Christine told me the week Levi was born that if all I "get done" is loving, feeding, and changing the baby then I'm doing everything that needs to be done. Later that week I read an article in the Ensign about a woman who has cut her list down to one or two urgent items a day so that she can be flexible with herself and her children. My attempts at doing that have been strained, but I'm trying. My dad and I agree that being tired never really ends. It just grows--perhaps, though, we add to it sometimes.

In two weeks from today I'll be at the annual teacher training, tying the last bits of my class together. Summer is officially ending; as usual, I'm buzzed about school but this year I feel a little melancholy. The beginning of school marks the close of my slow warm months learning to be a mother. Never again will I battle the anxiety of a first time birth, waiting for labor to begin each day, then finally embracing my first baby and memorizing all his parts without any other demands. For our next baby I'll have a toddler (ish), we'll be farther from family (most likely), and forcing time to allow me to write will be more difficult. I don't expect much quiet or slow moments for the next...oh...forty years. Which is great, I welcome those forty years. I have loved these sweet slow months, though.

Levi snores in his sleep. Our kitchen faucet that has been running constantly for a week (the plumber contracted for our rented basement is on vacation until Monday) trickles like a fountain. Thunder brews outside. I gaze at the dear little bubbles forming around my son's lips and wonder how two months stretched and filled him. The leaves on our vine shift colors. Life changes millisecond by millisecond. How did I not notice that before? Is it possible to cherish each breath forever?