I am Sisyphus. My boulder is a pair of pink tights, one size too big with a hole in the knee. Each day I must talk Little Miss into wearing something, anything, that’s not them.
Or maybe the boulder is convincing Big Sis to let me fix her hair. Each day. Or at least brush it.
I won’t even mention Mount Laundry or the dish washer rotation or the massive left bicep that slings a 25 pound baby boy with ease… these are too obvious.
And I am not alone. I am every parent.
What’s more shocking… I’m happy. (French Kiss lovers… perhaps your arse is beginning to twitch…)
Somehow, fighting these repetitive mini-battles each day gets overshadowed by the satisfaction of having a six-year-old share her joyful discovery of The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe.
She stumbled upon that book when I re-worked my bookshelves last week. She sat right down and delved in. Rediscovering much-loved stories through her eyes nearly brings me to tears.
Actually, when she read the dedication in that book for Jane, who grew up before the book was finished “because girls grow faster than books,” I really did cry.
When I listen to Elle read stories aloud to Max, or listen to Max sing “Ba, baba, ma, bwa” to the kitty, I can’t help but rejoice that we can stay home most days, tights and all, covered in rice cereal and snuggling.
Then we added two kitty’s to the mix, and the energy they bring. Two years ago, all of this chaos would have sent me over the edge… two years ago it nearly did. Perhaps I’ve hit my stride as a parent, the still point where each victory is savored and each boulder is toted up the mountain with full knowledge that it won’t stay put.