This post may contain affiliate links. Please see my Disclosure statement for more details.
I’m trying to remember today that there won’t always be doctor-treasure-chest toys in the dryer.
No, they won’t be nestled there alongside lint and an empty food pouch. There won’t be a trillion chocolate cheerios decorating my kitchen floor. There won’t be Sid the Science Kid and Caillou, and I never ever will speak the name Elmo unless it is my choice.
There won’t be moldy sippy cups full of old milk, midnight dirty diapers, and inexplicable wailing. (Except, perhaps, from me.)
But there won’t be baby babbles and giggles. There won’t be blonde ringlets to pet and smooth, teeth bumps to soothe with Orajel and wooden rings, or awe over a cracker spread with peanut butter.
For some reason the last few days have been nearly unbearable with the three-year-old. The refusal to cooperate with Mommy and Daddy in any fashion has eaten me to the core. I’ve cried buckets … mostly where she can’t see me dissolve.
I’ve been meandering my way through One Thousand Gifts, and today I forced myself to open my journal back up after a week’s dust had settled on it. Firmly, with pen, I write
#48 a green plastic ring in the dryer
and then I remember the rest of the day’s blessings:
cheeks full of apple and happy baby drool
David so pleased with himself as he waves bye-bye
Libbie’s book-love …
He made it all; He gave it all; it is all good.