The come back

So I left...and then came back. I wasn't sure that what I was writing about really mattered. Who would read this? Who would want to read this? Why is my ordinary day filled with the mundane worth reading about? Thanks to my husband, I have realized that it doesn't matter if I am the only one who reads this. It is therapeutic to write. To journal. To get it out.
I am staying home with my two children right now. I have a 2 1/2 year old and a four month old. Being a stay-at-home-mom is challening and rewarding and thankless and full of thanks and predictable and fickle...all wrapped into one. There are days when I swear to myself that I can't give one more ounce of myself without cracking and crashing and burning into a complete and utter pile of ash that my husband will be forced, unknowingly, to sweep up once he comes home. And there are days when my children are purely delightful and full of inspiration. Days when I can't believe that I grew those chubby fingers handling the crayons. Days when I see, or attempt to see, the world as they see it.
I am lucky. Lucky that my son can stay in his "dajamas" until 11am or all day. I am lucky that I can make my son pancakes with sprinkles for breakfast. I am lucky that we can stay inside and watch the snow fall while wriggling our toes in fat socks. Days that consist of putting together puzzles and having picnic lunches on the living room floor.
On those days where I feel the pile of ash creeping just below the surface. Where my skin starts to crawl by 8am because my son has been playing his noisy guitar for an hour. Where I find myself scraping "nice" krispies and play-doh of the floor daily. When I clean all day and it doesn't look like it. When my son hits me and screams. When I experience what every other mom of a two year old is experiencing but somehow feel entirely alone in the struggle.
I must go into the catalogue in my brain that I keep, complete with belly laughs, unwarranted hugs, silliness, and my sons constant reminder, unknowingly, that the window in childhood is so small. The time in life when there isn't stress and schedules and responsibilities and trouble is so very small. He reminds me of this. His imagination and spirit are unmatched. His awe at everyday things that I so often take for granted. The way his eyes light up when I use cookie cutters on his peanut butter sandwich. I must remind myself that I can always teach again. I can't, however, get time back when my children are little. This is the time. This time, no matter how crazy, is so beautiful and miraculous.