The Hard Lessons

One day I won't lean toward the hard way. Several years ago we adopted a "free" dog. We had just moved across the country, from California to Virginia, and a puppy seemed like a good idea. We loved him dearly, but he was far from "free." We learned that the hard way. He chewed a hole in our white carpet down to the threadbare. I covered the ugly hole with an ugly area rug for awhile. Not long after, he swallowed an entire bottle of vitamins that nearly killed him and made him seize. He lost those vitamins, all 144 of them, all over the leftover white carpet. We used every last cent of the very last paycheck I earned before birthing my eldest to install durable, beautiful hardwood.

Hard. Wood. Hard. Lesson. Beautiful. Durable.

The baby has been fussy lately, crying, with FOUR new little white mountains jutting up through his tender gums. He follows me endlessly, sometimes clinging relentlessly. It was cute the first few days. But hours and hours passed of see-sawing between lap time (or hip time) and just allowing him to scream when I set him down. When my arms got tired he sat on the floor. And when my ears got tired he sat on my lap. HOURS.

And then, I just couldn't get "things" done, "MY stuff" done. I rushed through phone appointments, left projects half finished, and stampeded through my day. It was like someone had called checkmate and had me cornered.

To call me snarly may have been an understatement.

So I cried uncle.

Really, would the world come to an end if my stuff did not get done?

What was the cost of getting it all done?

I slid down to the hardwood. I sat. I felt the firmness under my fanny of that hardwood. Time has passed since I just sat, stopped running in circles, stopped making my own head spin. I sat eye to eye with my baby, giggling, playing peek a boo, and pushing buttons on electronic toys. And in a moment the baby relaxed, to his usual little giggles, playing his favorite teeny monkeyshines. This is his idea of peekaboo. He only agrees to cover his sweet head, and not his chocolate eyes. He lives with those fingers in his moth, too. This is my baby, the one I haven't seen since the teeth started to erupt.

Sitting there, I pressed my palms down on the hardwood behind me, resting as we played. Those minutes were precious, the most peaceful minutes in his tearful days. My spirit soared. Sitting on the hardwood came the hard lesson.

These days with my last baby are numbered.

They are once in this lifetime.

These days are eyeblinks.

I don't want to count the cost.

I want the cost to count.

How about you? Are you making a change for the cost to count?