The rub

I find myself pulled in too many directions.  Mothering this sweet little boy of mine is my first job, but there are many other jobs around here that need doing, too.  I won't list them for you, but aside from the basics of laundry, dishes, meals, cleaning, and bills, there's the two gardens, the father-in-law, a front yard to landscape . . . you get the picture. 

Nomatter all the things to start or finish, I find myself drawn into the moment when I'm with Wyatt.  It's his rub that stops me -- and by that I mean Wyatt's habit of rubbing everything.

He rubs my side when he nurses.  And wakes me in the night to eat by rubbing his feet on my side. When I rock him, he rubs his hand up and down my arm.  I catch him tickling his own face with strands of my hair.  Then there are the times he reaches out and not-so-gently rubs my face with his fingers when we play together on the floor.  When he wants to be goofy while nursing, he rubs his hand against my mouth and then I kiss and nibble on his fingers, which always makes him giggle.  These days Wyatt explores all surfaces, people, and objects he can reach by rubbing and scratching them.  Oh, and then there's his expert ability to rub his feet together so to rid them of all socks (annoying but clever).

I am grateful to this round, smiley little boy for the way he is teaching me to pay attention, to feel what it is to love, and to be in the moment.  Before him, I was always thinking ahead, using the moment to plan for tomorrow or making long to do lists so I wouldn't forget anything.

Now I work away at the things that need doing, but I stop, often, to be with him.  Sometimes we play.  Other times we nap.  We nurse and laugh and sing.  Sometimes I just want to hold him.  And most days we even get a few chores accomplished:  he hangs out in the garden with me and when it comes to folding laundry, he's a big fan of the socks.

I get less done than I used to yet I know my time is more wisely spent.  Today his face changed.  Who knows what tomorrow will bring.  It's all going so fast . . .