The rain poured outside. The low hue of the lamp added to the warmth of the apartment. Toy trucks and legos scattered the floor. Dishes piled in the sink. She wore and old gym t-shirt and no make up. Newborn crying in her arms, her toddler watching a cartoon.
I immediately think this is a bad idea and thank her again for having me as I drag in my heavy carseat.
She apologizes for the mess and offers me tea.
The evening unfolds into a chain of attempted conversation in between an interrupting toddler and our two babies.
As the hour ticks by our tea cups grow cold, still full, and the children grow more restless and cranky.
In the midst of all this, she is so pleasant. She talks to me, shushing and rocking her crying baby, and gently instructing her toddler to be careful with his toys.
As I sit there at her table, I see something beautiful unfolding. There is struggle and exhaustion. There is a mess. There are cranky kids. But they all make up the melody to the beautiful song of motherhood.
There is struggle and heaviness, there are battles won and lost. There is a search for wisdom and an a strain for patience. There is dying to self and pouring out all that you have. The ups and downs, the minors and majors. There is a harmony of love.
The fussy mess of a room sang a beautiful song, and I sat there and listened. The sound of three babies overdue for bedtime and a heavy sigh from mom. It is a song that changes us. It carves into our rock, eroding away our ugliness.
It played to me and I hummed along. Its tune was in my heart all the way home. It resonated and rang true in who I also am struggling to be. It was my song too. So I sang along all night as my baby worked hard to grow her second tooth, adding depth to its notes with my heavy, sleepy yawns.