An Ordinary Day

Flash cards.  Easy readers.  Art projects.  

Paint and wood and glue.  Legos littering every room.  

Crayons, markers without lids, a completed puzzle.

Blankets that kept everyone warm.  Pillows all over the floor.

Papers to be signed.  Papers to be thrown away.  Papers that have been cut and more that have been scribbled.  

Laundry on the floor, waiting to be put away.  

Shoes that were supposed to stay in the mud room.  

Halloween decorations and a single stem of fake flowers. 

Piano books and clarinet books and violin books.  And a clarinet.  Sheet music and theory games and sticker wrappers and old assignment papers.

Medicine bag on the stairs, waiting to be taken up.  Along with more Legos and more socks.

A lanyard, a library book, and a few coats waiting to be taken down.

The basement lights are on. 

Jason isn't home.

Today I heard giggles and laughter and bouncy stories told of happy days at school.  

I heard make-believe stories spilling out faster than they could be acted out.  

I saw small gestures of kindness, like holding a door and helping with a chore.

I gave out more hugs than consequences, and I tried to help a forgetful child prepare for tomorrow.

I wiped tears (and bottoms), I combed hair, I was grateful for second (and twenty-second) chances. 

Breakfast was made, lunch was made, dinner was made.  Cookies and hot chocolate and after school snacks.  It's all cleaned up.  For today.

Papers were written, piano lessons were taught.  

Our new family pictures are up.  Everyone is growing.

Laundry was done (for today) and appointments were made.  Encouraging words were given and adult connection was made.

Everyone is tucked in and I'm tuckered out.  Grateful for today.  Excited for tomorrow, but not quite ready to do it all over again. 

Reminding myself of the extraordinary gift of an ordinary day.