I’ve had the privilege of visiting with my daughter and her lovely family this spring. Each day, with a newborn and a two year old, bustles at a pace that I have not experienced for some time. Although I once managed three children, aged five and under, I have long since taken my uninterrupted mornings occupied with writing, reflecting, listening and creating for granted.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, just observing the details of a season I’d forgotten. The symphony of mummy, mummy, mummy, the edgy cry of a hungry baby, a tower of blocks tumbling to the floor, the beat of the washing machine full of new baby laundry, all loop in the background.
My sketchbook and pens sit on the dresser, disregarded. I seem to be unable to complete a creative endeavor without one of my sweet grandsons jostling for my attention and I’m more than delighted to focus my energy on them, playing cars and ramps, ambling down the sidewalk, reading stories, enjoying a cuddle, knowing my time visiting them is short.
This morning as my older grandson splashed about in the bath, I caught a few moments to relax, to ponder the wonder of a seven day old baby staring up at me. I found time for a quick journal entry and sketched his little face, then his toy lamb, left behind on the living room rug.