There is a strange surreality that comes of writing this family life blog and reading ones like it. Even knowing that all mommy blogs consist only of the fantastic moments, and that they create an illusion of a life composed of fantastic moments, it’s hard for me not to believe the illusion, try to recreate the illusion. Lately I feel a sense of... almost-pressure to make every day of sunlight contain an adventure for my boys. It seems like every moment not spent exploring with them is a wasted moment. There are creeks to be walked, flowers to pick, kites to crash, picnics to eat, even Play-doh, art projects, and kitchen floor dance parties to be had. Who can bear the thought of folding laundry or washing dishes when there are adventures waiting for boys whose small years are finite. How do I describe the emotion I feel in watching Abraham’s face as he tries to figure out something new? The beauty of neophyte concentration is beyond explanation. How long will Charlie want to go home from the creek with pockets full of half-wilted flowers, rocks, and shells to show daddy? What chore is important in the face of that? It compels me. I chase it. It makes a beautiful conundrum of every day. I know I have to teach them that there is a time for chores and a time for play. I know that harmony of a household does depend somewhat on beating back the physical chaos of our surroundings. But there are flowers to plant, dirt to dig in, frogs to catch, camp fires, long walks, fishing. There are these boys and I am Peter Pan.
There is a strange surreality that comes of writing this family life blog and reading ones like it. Even knowing that all mommy blogs consist only of the fantastic moments, and that they create an illusion of a life composed of fantastic moments, it’s hard for me not to believe the illusion, try to recreate the illusion. Lately I feel a sense of... almost-pressure to make every day of sunlight contain an adventure for my boys. It seems like every moment not spent exploring with them is a wasted moment. There are creeks to be walked, flowers to pick, kites to crash, picnics to eat, even Play-doh, art projects, and kitchen floor dance parties to be had. Who can bear the thought of folding laundry or washing dishes when there are adventures waiting for boys whose small years are finite. How do I describe the emotion I feel in watching Abraham’s face as he tries to figure out something new? The beauty of neophyte concentration is beyond explanation. How long will Charlie want to go home from the creek with pockets full of half-wilted flowers, rocks, and shells to show daddy? What chore is important in the face of that? It compels me. I chase it. It makes a beautiful conundrum of every day. I know I have to teach them that there is a time for chores and a time for play. I know that harmony of a household does depend somewhat on beating back the physical chaos of our surroundings. But there are flowers to plant, dirt to dig in, frogs to catch, camp fires, long walks, fishing. There are these boys and I am Peter Pan.
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