The Good Old Days

Written September 2008

We were sitting in my mother’s happy kitchen last Sunday, the soft hum of the dishwasher signaling after-lunch peace, when my sister-in-law posed an intriguing question: “When are the good old days?” Her point was that we often look back at our lives remembering, through rose-colored glasses, the past.

Meanwhile, we trudge through our daily lives; and if we’re not looking back, we’re looking forward. We’ll be happy when the weekend comes. We can’t wait until vacation rolls around, then we can have fun. Maybe when the gifts are wrapped, the food prepared, and all the running around finished, we will finally relax and enjoy Christmas.

There’s nothing wrong with looking forward. Only sometimes, in the constant anticipation of what’s coming later, we neglect now.

As the mother of a toddler, time has existed in a strange warp the last 18 months. The first two months blew by like a tornado; fast, wild, and leaving a trail of destruction in the house! The next couple of months crept by ever so slowly while we dealt with nearly constant crying: Rafe’s and mine. He had colic, and I had postpartum depression. Thankfully, those months passed with the help of an army of support: good doctors, my unshakable husband and our extended family! Now, as I look back, I wish I could have spent more time enjoying and less time worrying.

The key, for me, is to realize that through paying bills, changing diapers, and trying to find the bottom of the laundry hamper, life is happening. Moments that I want to treasure happen all the time. Happy Saturday morning moments when Jason and I laugh hysterically at who knows what while we set up for a yard sale at dawn. Remarkable Monday lunchtime moments when the three of us play on the floor and Rafe says, “Catch!” for the first time. Or, moments like this one, when it’s almost naptime and my sweet boy brings me a book and climbs into the chair with me (the baby, not the husband).

It’s worth the interruption of whatever task I leave for later, because these moments are fleeting. It’s a privilege to catch so many snapshots in time. I make a vow to myself to stop worrying about what’s wrong with the car and how much it will cost to fix, and really pay attention to the bears in Rafe’s book. I’ll put extra animation in their voices and watch him smile at his silly mother, because the “good old days” are right now.

Day of Rest

As seen in the Sand Mountain Reporter Newspaper
Saturday August 2, 2008

Sunday morning comes with the promise of worship, fellowship, peace… Well, peace is a stretch. Our Sunday mornings come at the speed of light, riddled with every conceivable catastrophe.

Saturday nights have morphed into “the old folks at home” most weeks, peppered with an occasional dinner out. Even so, we have trouble getting to bed at a decent hour. Whatever tasks are required for Sunday are frequently left until bedtime Saturday night since the week is so chaotic.

So Sunday morning comes. I always feel a little sleepier, partially due to the late night, and partially because the temptation to lie in bed all morning is a mighty one. The clothes are pressed and laid out (if they weren’t, no one would ever manage to get out of the house.) Yet even with the night-before preparations, the calamity strikes. In earlier days, spit-up played a role. Without fail, the spitting up covered both the baby’s clothes and at least one adult outfit. More recently we’ve happily gotten past spit-up as a bodily function that delays, but others shift into the vacancy. Then there’s the inevitable leaving-behind of something important. Or, as the wonderful parents that we are, forgetting to feed our son breakfast. In our defense, it was a weird morning and he went back to bed for a nap before church-unheard of! So with the leaving behind comes the going back, which always takes a bit longer than you expect, because you catch sight of your hair in the mirror, and believe me, it needs work!

This Sunday morning, I was so proud of myself that I got up and got ready in time to go to early choir practice! That extra sleepy factor usually sucks me back in. Almost ready, my husband comes in the room to say he’s been called in to see a patient and will meet us at church, later. We go into express mode to get Rafe ready, with opposition at every step: he doesn’t care that his nose is disgusting or that breakfast (that he was lucky to get!) is still on his chin, he doesn’t want to get cleaned! I finally get us both in the car and realize that the shoes I have on just won’t work because I have a blister on my toe from wearing them the previous day and I can barely limp along. Going back in, I realize I had left my notes for children’s sermon on the kitchen table, spattered with oatmeal, no less. After changing my shoes, dropping my cell phone (my prop for children’s sermon) twice, and tripping on a small wooden animal, we were on our way: to worship, fellowship, and just maybe, a little peace.