“My turn! My turn!”

The call rings out. The toy played with for too long. The book someone wanted. One child’s snack finished before the other. Life filled with inequity. Yet, I find myself feeling the same sometimes. When is it my turn? To have my way for once. A meal made for me, not leftovers we can’t afford to waste. To create space around beauty not kid-friendliness or safety. To have a few quiet minutes for thought without being interrupted by the latest argument or demand.  A leisurely outing not planned around potty training, bedtime or naptime, without interruptions for urgent snacks, drinks and bathrooms.


But when I look into their eyes I remember the early days. When they fit in my two arms and needed me. Not in the frustrating, mind numbing, way that demanding whines punctuate my daily grind. But in the infant desperation, both distressing and beautiful. The sacred symbol of our soul’s cry. (Don’t be deceived, I remember the bad times too. The never sleeping and hours of screaming didn’t feel so holy at the time. ) But I also remember those moments of clarity when suddenly nothing else mattered. It was mama’s turn.

Even as I write this the loud cry for snacks is a constant soundtrack. But when he crawls into my lap, I close my eyes and for just a moment, it’s my turn again.



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