In Carpool drop-off yesterday, my little guy realized he left his back pack at home.
“Just go. It’s OK,” I said.
“I can’t! I need it!” He cried.
This was taxing my sleep-deprived, get-up-early-no-matter-what-even after-a-girls’-night-in-and-2.5-glasses-of-wine self.
I struggled to maintain “nice mommy” composure and reminded myself that twice in the last two weeks, I have taken my biggest guy back home to get something he forgot. So I gave in. We went back home. On the way there, we passed a dump truck.
Apparently one wasn’t enough for the Babes.
She wanted more.
“Duck truck!” cry, cry, cry. “Duck truck!”
I calmed her a little by telling her we would see one in a minute when we made the loop again.
We dropped the kids off.
“Budger!” cry, cry, cry. She wants her brothers.
I talk her down again.
“Budger!” cry, cry.
We turn the corner to go to the grocery store because that had been the plan all morning.
We pass our neighborhood.
“House!” cry, cry, cry.
“We have to go to the store really quick Babes, ok?”
“Noooooooooo!” Waaaaaahaaaaa haaaa.
“You don’t want a cookie from the store?”
So I chose my battle. I don’t need to go now. I was just going to do it because we were out. There’s no way it’s worth it to me to head into the store with a crying toddler. We’ll go later.
I turn to go back to the house.
Again with the brothers!
“Weeeooo!” (that would be, “park” in Babe-eez). Cry, cry.
“House!” More crying.
“How many things can she cry about in succession!?” I’m thinking.
Wide open mouth, squinted eyes, fake tears, fake cry.
LOUD fake cry.
I am on the phone. My girlfriend is witnessing all this. We do this to each other. It’s OK with us. We share our most intimate mommy moments and talk each other through. She started laughing, “She’s such a girl!”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how it is. Don’t you ever feel like that when you’re upset? Like, ‘I’m mad at that! No, I’m mad at that! Or THAT! and that and that and that, and THAT!!’ ”
“Is she hormonal? She’s not even TWO!”
“Maybe. . . . ”
Now Babes is happily counting in the back seat. And clapping. And smiling.
“Now I want to try the store,” I say.
“No, don’t do it,” she warns.
So I don’t.
We come home.
I’m tired. I’m feeling mildly abused. Overly cried at.
Babes cries a little bit more over something random. She’s falling to pieces over nothing.
And then she tells me, in a wimpery little voice, eyes moist, but no more crying, “Candy,” whimper, “chocat chippies. . . pwease”.
I’m strung out from the cry-a-thon, and my heart melts a little bit.
I see myself in her. Sometimes we just need a little sugar, really.
So I give her chocolate chippies at 8:30 in the morning.
She smiles, does a little skippity-skip, and asks me for a huggie. So I get down on the floor and give her one. A big one where I can nuzzle into her neck and feel her smooth little skin and plump little cheek and I can smell baby soap on her soft feathery hair, and I let her know with my huggie that I know what it’s like to be a girl. . . to just need a little chocolate.
“I get you, Babes. I do”.
I lose myself in our hug – inhale it. All of it – her sweet smell, her warmth, her electric little hand on my skin. . . the recognition that she loves me like she’ll never love anyone else. That’s why I’m the one that gets to endure the tears and chocolate with her. And I have my Kairos moment.
“Kairos is God’s time. It’s time outside of time. It’s metaphysical time. Kairos is those magical moments in which time stands still.”
Thank you Glennon, for giving me a word for these moments. They’ve always been there, but I’ve never had a name for them that fit so appropriately.
And thanks to my sister, for sending me Glennon’s beautiful and witty article. If you haven’t read it, I encourage you to. It’s funny, and honest and true. Just click the red link above, read it, then . . .
. . . start collecting your Kairos moments.