Little Feet, Big Steps
Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby. Babies don't keep.
Ruth Hulburt Hamilton
Excerpt from “Song for a Fifth Child”
Last night, the sun began to surrender drowsily into the horizon as if the wide world held its breath in anticipation as a major milestone was reached within our home.
Our littlest child took those first unsure, wobbly steps.
The ceremonial rite of passage was sanctified by the radiant evening light that descended on the soft features of dimply little legs and gripping toes. An ode to the flourishing tiny soul entrusted to me. Little One will be quite mobile in the weeks to come as she stretches her capacity to go further and further with her newfound independence. Naturally, first steps in our home always cause a flood of emotions from parent and sibling alike. The cries of celebration found within our humble, city home could most likely be heard blocks away.
I venture to say that the first steps taken by a child stands out vividly in most parent’s minds. The moment suggests that time has slowed to a savoring pace, and for once, it isn’t the enemy but an intimate ally. A trusted advisor that beckons all who will listen to feast upon the present, to taste the innocent goodness to be found therein. Time seems to understand fully how extraordinary and unprecedented this golden thread of a moment is in the tapestry of life and aims to allow us the rapture of it. I am grateful for the ability to be fully present in slivers of time such as these, to slow down and let joy captivate me. To let these junctures of life take precedence over anything else.
So often life is rushing past at a pace undetectable and our days become a staggering blur. Yet last night was a bittersweet reminder that time is incessant, and seasons will come and go whether we are physically or emotionally ready or not. I strive to be the mother who doesn’t mind the disheveled kitchen, because the heavy-eyed child melting into her chest needs her soothing touch much more than dirty dishes. The mother who knows the mounding laundry can be delayed, because there is a boy anticipating playtime in the floor with mom, and Heaven knows he won’t be a boy long. The mother who is selfless with her time because she understands time was never truly hers.
Every moment given is a gift from the Father above and there is no greater gift to me than that. If presented with the choice of a grand estate with gilded walls, sprawling gardens, and jewels that dazzle or the unadorned endowment of time, my response would be the latter without hesitation.
In our culture today, it’s high praise to be told you have an “abundant mindset” and it may be true that life can have the capacity to provide an abundance of “wants” if we are willingly to do whatever it takes. But one thing we cannot manifest in our lives no matter how strenuous our attempts, is more time. Therefore, let us steward our days well friends. Let us cultivate gentle days in the sun with laughing children, cuddles on the couch reading another book aloud despite the to-do list, and of course, anchoring ourselves to the floor as a steady harbor for catching that wobbly, wee child taking those first adventurous steps.
If there is anything more deserving of our time, I haven’t unearthed it yet.
“Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!
Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby, loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.)
Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby. Babies don’t keep.
”