Can you just stop!?
I must holler that across my house half a dozen times a day. Stop fighting with each other. Stop teasing. Stop being big brother(ish) just because you can. Stop complaining. Stop whining.
Just stop. Please. Just… stop.
I’m not usually upset. It is out of exhaustion more than anything that I let out that particular appeal.
It’s after all of the trips to and from the school have been made, and the homework has been checked, and the baby has gone through another set of clothing in the last hour. It is after the meltdown over who got the orange bowl, or whose turn it is to hold the blue crayon, or who won’t stop looking at who.
It’s after I’ve given the last of what I had to give with three hours left until bedtime… or on the morning that comes after an endless night.
Just stop.
A few nights ago, I went from room to room doing what I’m sure many of us do before we finally decide to go to bed ourselves. I softly walked into my kids’ bedrooms and repositioned them in their beds. I scooped them up and put their heads back on their pillows. I put legs back on the bed that had fallen over the edge. I rearranged their covers. I turned out the night light, or the lamp, or the closet light. And I kissed their heads and whispered a quick prayer.
But as I made it to my oldest’s room, I found him still awake. And as he rolled over and smiled at me, I realized just how much I miss him. Don’t get me wrong. He’s right here in my house every day. It’s just that he’s on his own a little more now. He plays and entertains himself, and goes to school, and some days, I just miss him needing me. I know how crazy that sounds. We do that though. Don’t we?
We want nothing more than for the day to come when we can have a little freedom from our very dependent children. Only when those days finally arrive, we realize how we were never in control of how fast this growing up thing happens. We realize just how fleeting these endless days really are.
We realize that childhood has an expiration date, and no matter what we do, we can’t ever buy more time.
I walked to the edge of my son’s bed, and I knelt down beside him. I looked him in the eyes, and like a reflex, his six year old arms reached out to hold onto me.
“Can you just stop, baby?” I whispered into his hair. “You’re getting too big. Can you just stop growing and stay here with me forever?”
He took a deep breath.
“I’m right here, Momma,” he answered squeezing a little tighter.
And I knew that was all he had to give, because we both know the truth.
He can’t stop. Not even if he really wanted to. He’s running toward the end of childhood full force, and all I can do is run alongside him and cheer.
And maybe that’s just it. Maybe he’s not the one who needs to stop anyway.
Maybe I am. Maybe I need to just stop and drink deeply from the well of this life in the middle of the marathon of motherhood.
Can you just stop, baby?
No, Momma. Can you?
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