I suddenly feel as though I have squandered these years. We didn't attend a single kindermusik class, I didn't take her down to the musty smelling community hall for baby gymnastics or hang out with the other moms at the public library story time, no Saturday afternoon baby ballet... I took her to work with me. She was dragged to fundraising meetings and coffee dates. She was my sidekick, under my feet, my blonde tornado, my partner in crime... she's been raised on a steady diet of roller derby mania and passive physiotherapy. She thinks it's normal that we have friends named Diva, Sweaty & Easy and there is an extra adult kid living in our house named Kitschy. She dresses herself in clothes built for comfort, favouring shirts that have a catchy message. Her hair is untamed and seldom washed. She can't print her name, sing her ABCs or count to ten. But she's along for the ride and she doesn't care where it's headed.
Suddenly all that time that stretched out before me has become remarkably finite. Years have turned into months and my time with her buzzing around making creative messes while I clean will soon come to an end. And tonight it has never felt so heavy. It's so ridiculously cliche to stand on this threshold and tell my tender mama soul that I should have cared less about my clean house and my healthy meals in favour of sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor singing songs with my toddler. But there it is. That's exactly where I am. And I'm wondering just how big a mess I can stand over the next few months. Cause that floor looks awfully inviting.
