I’m so very guilty. Guilty of focusing to much on the tasks. The dishes, the laundry, the dusting, the vacuuming, the moping, the bathrooms, the list goes on and on. The cycle is never ending. There is always something that needs tended to.

For me, order brings peace. It’s the one thing I can control amongst the madness, the house work. Those are good things to do, of course. Those are things that need to get done. If I don’t do it, no one else will. And, in doing them I am loving and serving my family so, those things are important.

But, so is sitting. Sitting down right in the middle of the frenzy and letting the little people clobber me like vultures: With their hugs, questions, books, toys, songs, and stories. It’s hard for me though. Give me the list of things to be done and I’ll do every last thing, no problem.

But to stop, to just be with them… all I can think about is all the stuff that’s not getting done, all the things I should be cleaning. But, when I do, when I stop and give them my complete undivided attention… when I allow myself to focus on them instead, and block out all other things that might distract me from those precious, fleeting moments, my heart feels so full it could burst. My cup is so full it’s over flowing.

Sure, shorty after that sweet moment the hysteria ensues. Messes are made, things are spilled, fights are had, punishments are given and new boo boos are acquired. My patients rans out, my calm nice voice turns quickly to a yell, and I, once again want to pull my hair out. But these kids, these lives I’ve been given, could I even ask for anything more from this life, then the opportunity, the privilege of being their mother?

The days are hard, absolutely. But, it’s all so very worth it, they’re worth it. What we do each day as mothers, the serving, the raising, the rearing, the guiding, the leading, the directing: it matters. It has purpose far beyond what even I feel most of the time. But, my life is so rich because of them. These are the very best of my days, of that I am sure.

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