I reached out my hand. And I noted how much gunk had amassed on the doorknob to the laundry room door. Just another sign of tiny hands that have taken over every inch of our world. Every speck of our existence is coated in reminders that we are in the littles phase.
Window markers on the windows. Fingerprints smudged on the refrigerator handle. And the doors. Sticky collections of yogurt in the cracks of the kitchen table. Milk splatter beneath the chairs. Tiny Lego lightbulbs and one-bys left in random corners or footpaths. Paint scraped away from a window sill after a Sharpie incident. Comforters flipped in reverse after another Sharpie encounter. Fish cracker crumbs amidst little treasure troves of gumball machine toys in the rails beneath the carseats. Stacks of books in every room. In every basket. Some with torn or missing pages and broken bridges. Bouncy balls lingering underneath couches along with dust bunnies. And stray socks. Everywhere you turn, stray socks are waiting to meet your gaze. A million different train track pieces that seem to be missing that one {or seven} essential connector. Broken light fixtures and door stoppers that no one seems to have broken. Hardened playdough specks caked below the creating surface. Crayolas, broken in half and left to fend for themselves in a cup of crayons that feels impossible to toss. Toothpaste adorning their bathroom counter. Walls speckled with pen drawings. Snack bowls left wherever they were used until snacking was complete. Step stools left where ever the last attempted to reach. And when the sun shines just right on any clear window, small handprints can be found through the glimmerings.
The level of noise and tromping is at an all-time high. Three sets of feet taking on the wood floors. Three sets of hands pounding on any available surface. Three noses ripe for the picking. Three little minds ripe for imagination and shenanigans. Which generally include jumping off of something or wearing backpacks around the house for adventuring. Three throats for yelling at one another. Or laughing unfiltered laughter. Or for expelling glass-shattering screams. And three sets of eyes that produce tears that come easy and stop even easier. Three personalities that sometimes make for the perfect marriage and other times, make for brotherly divorce. And disdain.
Music and beats often fill the house to the brim. Perfect for dance parties and merry making. And bedtime brings songs and reading and laying and more often than not, tender snuggles, back rubbing and the mmm mmm mmm tune being hummed. Hugging is still in full force. And kisses are given at random. The asking permission is still happening. And the i love yous still flow easily. Mid-sentence. Again, just as the tears can, on some days. Books are brought with begging eyes accompanying climbing up into my lap for a spell. There is no attention paid by them to messes made. Because the messes are their mind’s creations. There is little need, in their opinions, to know time because their work is currently play. And they are only just beginning to get into the idea of neediness as it relates to an electronic device.
Every little part of our big world is filled with their presence.
…
I reached out my hand. I noted how much gunk had amassed on the doorknob to the laundry room. And I kept on about my task; another shift change of laundry from three little men. I didn’t turn back to get a wet rag. That would just make for craziness on my part — wiping it every single time it got sticky. Because soon enough, it will be gunky again.
I’m in the phase of littles. And I recently realized I don’t want to waste it wiping doorknobs. Or immediately taking away their window art. Or breaking down their Lego creations every night. I don’t want to be driven crazy by the noise. Or get riled up about every reminder about the house that we are the parents of three healthy, crazy boys. I don’t need a perfectly staged home. Not every day, at least.
We are in the thick of it. Three under 6. Some days, it’s maddening. It is absolutely astonishingly loud. And at times, complete chaos. It can even, oddly, be lonely, even though you’re constantly surrounded. It’s over-stimulating on the daily… being touched, grabbed, shouted at, beckoned, and the like, in what seems like every one of their waking hours. Your mind could blow trying figure out what it is that will help them each become the very best version of themselves they can become. It’s all-consuming if you let it be. And it’s messy. Oh, so messy.
but.
Before we know it, this phase will be gone. The house will be silent. They will grunt as they walk past me and may wonder why I want to hold them longer than they’d like as I sneak a hug. Their handprints will only be imprinted in my memory instead of seen faintly on stainless steel doors and clear glass windows. And the sticky doorknob will have been forgotten.
And there will be beauty in that phase, too, I am told. But they are only little once.
So for these current times, I am reminding myself to be where we are. To not fast forward the little days in favor of the bigs.
So I let the doorknob go. I move forward with my intended destination. And I thank the lord for the littles. For being their mama. And for the mess.
I will clean it tomorrow, I think. Or maybe the next day.
Or… maybe not.
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