I rock the baby in the dark, his hand holding my shirt. Eyelids raise, close, raise, close, to the rhythm of the rocking and it's up and down, slowly now.
The muffins are in the oven and music's in the air. I rock and count the songs to fourteen minutes. I say a small prayer, "Lord, let me hear the timer. It's fourteen minutes and this is a slow rock".
I settle and smell the baby's head and we incie weencie spider our way to sugared donut muffins and sleep, respectively.
Outside the evening tucks itself in quietly with crisp breezes and gentle rustles, but inside I hear the noisy sounds of sheet music while my boys play in their beds. There's a giggle and a whisper, set to the beat of the creak of my rocker, with a cheer from children's music on the kitchen radio. Kermit faintly croaks about being a proud frog in the Glen, and a two year old stumbles confidently through bedtime sentences. He's sitting up in his bed, softly reciting the things he knows, repeating things to remember.
It's momma, dadda, night-night time, cars. It's sometimes, sometimes, sometimes. A new favorite of his, this word, sometimes. I listen to his chant and the clack of matchbox cars in the dark.
I listen to my four year old's whispered theology. God made us special, much more special than squirrels. We get boo-boos and then we get scabs, because God made us, He made us this way; better than squirrels.
The squirrel's are a surprise, but I say Amen anyway as I eavesdrop on his soul talk.
Baby's eyes are closed, and time's up.
I lay him down and walk over the toys I picked up before dinner. They're back, intent on living in the hallway, plotting their midnight assassination attempt towards my tired feet. I kick them away and hurry toward the oven. Everything is up and down, words, actions, messes and monotony. At night, my life is on the gentle cycle of the dryer; tumble and turn. Children sigh and lights dim. Momma eats a muffin. Rinse and repeat.
For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”-G.K. Chesterton
