There is a lot that needs doing. My kitchen is piled high with dishes that need washing. The living room carpet needs vacuuming. A basket of clean, dry laundry sits in the hallway near the drying rack, awaiting folding. The drying rack is full of dry diapers that need to be stowed away in their basket. The dining table needs wiping. Flyers need to be read, a grocery list for the coming week prepared. A very late lunch needs to be prepared and served. Correspondence to write, articles to read.
I have things to do.
But I sit, instead, still and quiet on my couch. Instead, I knit a hat for my oldest, a pink and peach handspun, bobbled, gnomish number to keep her warm. I am pinned to the couch by my youngest, my baby, who still insists most days that naps occur in my lap. While she will gladly sleep alone on a bed at night, daytime is another matter. So I sit.
Most days I object, seeing this only as an interruption to my day, a suspension of all the important things I need to do. But as I sit here, I observe that the weight of her is pleasant. Heavy and soporific, her little honey-tufted head damp with the warmth that every sleeping child emanates, the burden of her is light and easy. She insists on my ease, enforcing my rest. And I know: these days are short, their tally numbered. How many more days will she so desire my closeness, this connection with me for her slumber? For how much longer will I be her sanctuary?
I sit. I enjoy the weight of her as she sprawls across my lap or lies prone on my chest, head on my shoulder. She breathes deeply, restfully, and I echo her, embracing the lesson she has to teach me. Her sister plays, imagining aloud in whispers. The needles softly click, dipping in and out of the wool.
I have things to do.
Almost haiku. Helen
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