these are the days: fall 2024
We have officially moved. And through the busy-ness of it all, a phrase has been my internal refrain, “these are the days.” (I first saw a similar practice to this in writing by Emily P. Freeman—credit where credit is due).
These are the days: not all good days, not all bad ones, but days. I’ve wanted to slow down and remember what filled my minutes, because maybe if I practice remembering, I’ll also practice gratitude, whether the minutes were easy or difficult.
These are the days of early rising, of sherbet sunrises, and sun peeking through the houses across the street through our windows.
These are the days of puzzling what to pack first, where to place all the furniture, and what color to paint the walls.
These are the days of waiting for the roof to be replaced, the paint to dry, the carpets stretched and steamed. These were the days of waiting, waiting, waiting.
These are the days of being grateful the half-bag of pull-ups has sat in a dresser drawer for 8 months because both kids, yes, both (6 and 3) had potty training regressions and you threw away so many pairs of underwear that were beyond washing.
These are the days you wonder about their anxiety over the move.
These are the days your temper gets the best of you. Your biggest prayer is of repentance for your impatience with them.
These are the days you listen to an audiobook of Little Women and see yourself in Jo March’s temper. Marmee’s words both destroy and heal you as she mothers you through it. You want to be her when you grow up and you feel so behind in self-control. You wish your mom were here to tell you this instead of a book character.
These are the days you look at the kids and remind yourself, “they’re still little.”
These are the days you pull the disassembled crib from the closet and say goodbye to it and cry like a baby because you don’t have any babies who need it anymore.
These are the days you post fewer photos or videos of yourself online because your pants don’t fit and that shows in your face, too. You wish you didn’t feel this way, but it is.
These are the days you light the gas fireplace before anyone else wakes, and you hope sound travels softer in this house than the last and that perhaps, you’ll get some quiet before thundering feet on wood floors.
These are the days you learn every creak on said wood floors and your heart thunders in silent prayer every time you step on one, please, Lord, just a little peace and quiet.
These are the days you take a deep breath and embrace holding kids close under a warm blanket, even if they did “interrupt” your time.
These are the days of seeing a half-dozen mourning doves out your window and watching them scatter to the sky when you turn your head to count them.
These are the days of slipping on your way out of the bathtub and getting a monster bruise, the days of tossing the former owner’s one-ply toilet paper in the trash and thinking, “really?! Did he use this?”
These are the days of hot coffee on the front porch and lukewarm coffee forgotten in the middle of too many tasks.
These are the days of clutching each other tight in the evening, you and your husband praying for the other house to sell, praying for your family and future, releasing the anxiety you both feel over all the pressures of life, finances, ministry, and being parents. And then you do it the next night, and the next.
These are the days of decorating for Christmas before all the boxes are unpacked from the garage.
These are the days of fluffing your mom’s old pre-lit tree and wondering when did she last touch it? How long since she performed the same task? Five years? She loved this tree and your dad wanted you to have it. Not decorating was a symptom of her Alzheimer’s, not a clinical one, but a symptom nonetheless. Did she even know it was Christmas last year? Did we know it was her last? We had an inkling.
These are the days of waking with tears in your eyes and not being quite sure why they’re there but crying them anyway.
These are the days of new neighbors being old friends who drop a Christmas card on your porch and ask when you can schedule dinner after the holidays.
These are the days of taking a run at your mom’s toffee recipe and burning it, of your daughter saying, “I don’t like it, but I still like you,” and questioning if it was your execution or simply not her taste.
