A blizzard isn't so bad, but a winter storm that follows a three-day family flu-fest is an Olympic-sized test of endurance (at least for the mommy who's been holding puke buckets and mopping sweaty foreheads for thirty-six-hours straight!)
Thankfully, the sun escaped the cloud cover today and the outdoor thermostat rose steadily. The school doors were unlocked and our flu buckets were deep cleaned and banished once again to the laundry room. The knee-high drifts of snow that had blocked our front door were shoveled into large white mountains along the driveway, while the Little People houses that had turned my living room into a messy plastic ghetto were relocated to the toy closet. The hedge had toppled (at least until the next blizzard blows through).
I can manage the icy white walls that come with my simple Midwest life. I know that a steady dose of spring sunshine will eventually melt winter's barrier. However, the hedges that accompany this season of motherhood are more difficult to embrace. When I first became a mommy I was shocked by my unexpected feeling of stuck–ness. When I'd welcomed my first smashed-nosed, bald-headed beauty into the world on August 17, 1998, I hadn't imagined the hedges that one small seven-pound-seven-ounce being would erect around my comfortable life. Just as my firstborn's budding independence began to mow down a hedge or two, I added another hedge-builder to the mix. And then another, and another, and still one more. For over a dozen years, I've been bound by nap times and hungry tummies, diaper bags and car seats, early risers and nighttime wailers.
The Overflow: You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. -Psalm 139:5-6