It Was Just Yesterday…

The other night, I was up too late and trying to get things done and relax at the same time. Every night I try this, and every night I fail. Things end up unfinished and relaxing doesn’t happen because I’m left thinking about what needs to be done instead. I know if I would just take care of things and then relax, I would enjoy both so much more. Yet I continue to try to mix the two…

After wasting time trying to productively relax, I got off my duff and set out to complete one essential task. Little Miss had a picnic to attend the next day and had given me specific orders before being tucked in about what she wanted to entertain her palate with the next day at lunch. She had been in bed for quite some time and I felt I had procrastinated long enough. I snuck back into her room to retrieve the lunchbox we haven’t had occasion to use yet.

I went back to the kitchen and meticulously crafted her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut just the way she likes it. I put fresh cherries and blueberries in a baggie, and loaded up some of her favorite goldfish crackers. It was fun, making her lunch. It’s the simple pleasures of motherhood that make me feel as if I have superhuman powers. As I was enjoying this task, I was struck by the realization this will soon be my life. Before I know it, I’ll be packing her lunch every night, balancing the compromise between giving her foods she both likes and needs.

Using one of her glitter markers, I wrote a little note on a post-it and stuck it inside her lunch box. I zipped it up, stuck it in the fridge, and felt proud of myself for this monumental “mom moment”. Then these old eyes of mine started to leak a little.

The thing is, it was just yesterday I was mashing bananas and strawberries to feed her in her high chair. It was only yesterday I was bathing her in the kitchen sink, and reading “Ladybug Girl” a bajillion times in a row. It was just yesterday I was watching her play on her floor gym, captivated by the linking rings. It was just yesterday I went in to pull her from her crib in the morning and hear her say “rocking chair” so we could snuggle together before the day began.

And now I’m making her lunch. And she feeds herself (and takes for. ev. er. to eat) and she insists on washing herself in the bath. She reads to herself, while only occasionally asking for help with a word. She jumps off furniture and tackles playground jungle gyms. She tucks herself in and comes to wake me up in the morning, inquiring as to the plans of the day she’s excited to begin.

Tomorrow we’re going to tour her college campus. Pick out her wedding dress. I’m watching the grandkids.

There are days that have drug on slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through molasses. Days when I can’t wait for Daddy to come home so I can mentally check out from this mommyhood business. There are days I pray for Jesus to come back if for no other reason than I don’t want to have to hear the Frozen soundtrack one more time.

Then there are days I make my daughter’s lunch and wonder where the last five years went.

It seemed like such a simple thing, to make my daughter’s lunch the night before a picnic, but there’s never been a lunchbox so heavy as the one I placed in the fridge that night. It carried more than a few choice morsels of food. It carried years of precious memories, bundles of future hopes, and an overflow of motherly gratitude.

It was just yesterday