It was the fall of 1996. The Trucker had gone back on the road after the birth of our third mutual blessing. I was recovering physically, and learning to manage a household of three littles.
It had been a very hot summer, with just enough rain, but not too much. The garden was on overdrive - with weeds I could not conquer. The lawn was lush - and I could not mow it. The trees had put on their party dresses, and were showering colorful leaves on the ground - which I could not rake - with every breath of breeze.
And me? I was perpetually sleep deprived and behind the times, caring for an-almost-four year old, a-not-quite-two year old, and a high-need newborn whose strong will was already showing. The older ladies at church and in the grocery store would pat my arm and tell me that I was so blessed, and this was the best time of my life, and enjoy it while you can, this time goes by so quickly, and don't worry about garden and flowerbeds and housework, you are growing children right now instead. All things I knew to be true, but that kind of encouragement was not what I needed at the moment.
Nor was the insistent pressure from some to "get out for a while." Hah. OK, really? Let's see, planning the day out, securing a sitter, preparing bottles, writing down schedules and pre-cell phone emergency numbers. Walking away from small hands grasping for you in panic and shrill cries of fear that you are leaving. "Forget it all and have a good time." As if. Then come back and deal with the emotional fallout of three children and play catch-up on the housework? Ah, nope.
Don't get me wrong. These little ones were the answer to many prayers. I loved them desperately. I knew this was just a season. It was just....hard....and lonely....and swimming upstream against the opinions of many around me.
Enter a morning in October. The-almost-four year old, and the-not-quite-two year old were out by the back porch, playing in the sandbox and the carpet of leaves under our spreading maple tree. In the interest of coaxing the howling infant in my arms to sleep, I had closed the door between front room and kitchen to block out the happy play noises.
While rocking baby, I heard scrapes, thumps, bumps, much swishing and scuffling, and frequent slams of the spring loaded screen door. I could not come up with a scenario that would account for such sound effects.
The vintage, wooden screen door that led to the back porch had its lower half reinforced with a wooden panel, the result of too many small hands and bodies leaning on the screen and eventually popping it out of the frame. The Trucker had also thoughtfully installed an outside handle at just the right height for a toddler, sparing me many trips to open the door, and allowing said toddlers a sense of independence in opening the door for themselves.
Baby slumbering at last, and stowed in her crib, I quietly opened the door to the kitchen. And stood in shocked amazement.
The entire kitchen floor was covered, ankle deep, in a layer of leaves. Spread evenly with care, to corners and under cabinets. Dry and crunchy, many had crumbled into small bits. And by the screen door, eyes sparkling, miniature chest heaving from exertion, small sand bucket in hand, was my not-quite-two year old. Those sparkling eyes were fixed expectantly on me.
What could I say? What could I do? But sweep that pint-sized decorator up in my arms for a hug and a kiss. And tell her how proud I was of the lovely decorating job she'd done on our kitchen. And how hard she must have worked, just for me.
How many trips had those short legs made up the steps, across the porch, dragging that little sand bucket. Tugging open the screen door, crawling through. Dumping the bucket, carefully spreading an even layer across the floor. And back again. Over and over. Just to please her Mama.
I couldn't think of it as a mess. Couldn't dwell on the fact that every step crumbled more leaves into tiny fragments that would need cleaned out. Couldn't mention that any chance of an afternoon nap was gone, as I had to clean this up while the children slept, before it was dragged onto the carpet and through the rest of the house.
Those sparkling dark eyes were windows into a little heart and soul, a self esteem no less important for being housed in a tiny body. An emerging desire, a need to please. And I, the beneficiary of this need.
Even now, as I write and remember, the tears are streaming. "Lord, did I 'do good'? In Your vast universe, with so many important things to manage, do you have a minute to look down on me, 'sand bucket' in hand, seeking approval and affirmation on my hard work? Did I make it pretty? Are You happy with me?"
I can only pray that if my dear daughter remembers this escapade, she also remembers feeling appreciated and loved. That her need to please was filled to the top and overflowed by my response.
And that when she awoke from her well deserved afternoon nap, she didn't notice the cleaned kitchen floor with the old, curling linoleum in full view again.
And how glad I am that she decorated with leaves, and not sand....
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