The bag ripped as I lifted the white plastic liner out of the kitchen trash can tonight.  Raw chicken juice mixed with some other nasty thing leaked in a fluid flow across the floor and onto my cream colored linen pants before I knew what was happening.  I swung the trash bag quickly up to the sink, spraying the cabinets just a bit as I did.  Another bag was placed over the torn one, then I hauled it out to the trash.  It smelled a bit like vomit.  And, you might recall,  I know what vomit smells like. 

A quick shower with citrus-ginger body scrub, followed by vanilla lotion and my new favorite pair of PJs refreshed me just in time for the sound of my middle-est calling from his bathroom ,"Mom!"  Which Phonetically sounds more like MAW......................................UM!  "Mom!  Someone forgot to flush the toilet and my special blanket just fell in!"

Going to save the blankie I stepped on a Lego.  

And the beat goes on...  Up at night when the oldest has growing pains, the youngest has a cough, or the middle-est has "Scawy Foughts."  Which would have been fine had I not waited up for my husband to get home from his business trip.  Morning came fast and hard, with sunlight and laughter, the pitter-patter, and screams of "He's touching me!!!!"  And the beat goes on... Peanut butter toast, face down on the floor you cleaned last night, since you were waiting up anyway.  And the beat goes on...

And it's constant.

Moving.  Cleaning.  

Correcting.  

Redirecting.  

It's been constant.

Learning. Going.

Teaching.

Often Preaching.

I'm not complaining,

just recognizing.  

It's been a gift

Through which I sift.

Trips to the beach

"Stay in your stroller seat"

More clothes to wash

and mops to slosh.

All the memories, 

Get wet

Duck ponds

at Sunset.

Dinner's waiting

Daddy's taking

One last business call.

You boys are busy with a ball.

Bath is drawn

Sprinklers on the lawn

A neighbor watches on.

Then off to bed

Tostled head

Of blond curls 

The days unfurl.

One after the other

For blessed busy mothers.

Underfoot and slipping by

Not in the twinkle of an eye.

That's not my song

My days are long

But the years, 

And the tears...

They fly up and out

without a doubt

Without a stop

Until you drop,

Ker-plop.  

On the couch.

Get out Baby books

Of how baby looked

Now grown 

No longer home.

Alone.

Deep sigh,

Time did fly.

Good-bye.

I'm standing here, on the cusp of a new season now.  Looking back at the pictures of popsicles and hoses, and plastic animals all in a rows-es.  There are still water fights, still correction, and cleaning to be done, under the sun.  But all three boys have gone to school for the first time in my mothering life.  And I'm here at point A... looking back at Z.  And it's good.  And it's right.  And I'll still be up at night.  But I'll know some rest and peace and refreshing walks, and phone talks.  And time to scrub those chicken juice crusted cabinets as a waltz plays from the stereo in the other room.  A new beat, a calmer rhythm, will fill portions of my days.   

It's not over.  But the rhythm has changed.  And I'm adjusting.