Stop and Smell the Roses

Stop and smell and roses. 

Yeah I’ve heard it too. Except the only rose in my purview these days is a dried up wilted one in a stained vase on my bedroom dresser. Hubby lovingly had gifted it to me on Mother’s Day when he presented me breakfast in bed. I was pleasantly surprised and truly did stop to breathe in its beautiful aroma and all the love with which it was given.  

But then the baby woke and as we always do, we lazily brought him into bed with us and that rose – romantic, siren red – blazed on the dresser in safe keeping from baby but close view. And I haven’t stopped to smell it since. Lets just chalk it up to life. 

I get it though, that cliche. Its an invitation to pause and embrace our present reality; quit the rushing about and just enjoy the place where we find ourselves and the simple pleasures contained within. Yes, I agree. It does sound inviting and refreshing but yet tantalizingly out of reach as I balance this teething baby on my tired hips, while stirring the stuck on pasta and wondering how in the world this mess of madness is getting out the door in an hours time. So close and yet so far away. Maybe I’m just not meant for roses right now. 

Then I see hubby; he’s down there in the baby jail sipping coffee and he lets out an exaggerated puff of air. I can almost see his eyes roll as he says “Not the Peek-A-Boo book again”. Yet within the same breath he starts in for the tenth time this morning on this aptly named “bored” book and with all the enthusiasm he can muster recites the words he knows by heart, all the while stifling the urge to ring a proverbial fist at the friend who gifted this treasure of a book to our son. I laugh out loud at this man who reads theological textbooks for pure pleasure as he stops everything to nurture a love for reading in our son. 

Really you just have to take advantage of those moments when they come.

There is too much fleeting in the world of littles. 

One day they love bananas and the next day they are poison. One moment mommy is a hero and the next she is the worst person who ever lived in the history of mankind. Today he adores reading, books of every kind. His busy hands explore the texture of the pages and his eyes hungrily consume the images contained. Sometimes he can’t even wait for the words to be read; he excitedly skips ahead to see what is next. Everyday he wants to rehearse his favourites and every night new stories settle him to silent slumber. 

So yes, I laugh with hubby on the third round of Peek-A-Boo and God knows we love the works of Eric Carle but for heaven’s sake we know the bear is brown. But in case you haven’t figured it out yet, you never should laugh when it comes to littles. It’s guaranteed to come right back around to get you. That day it did. 

I was on the floor of little mans bedroom folding and sorting an overdue load of laundry. (You know what I mean, a basket of clean laundry that you keep pulling out of until it’s almost empty because you just can’t or don’t take the time to pack away.) Yeah that kind. I was surrounded by piles of little people clothing when his clumsy baby hands plopped Alligater Pie right down on the leaning tower of onesies I had skillfully made. And right there, mid fold with the chaos everywhere his silent invitation was booming in my recesses of my mommy heart. 

Stop and smell the roses. 

Or rather… 

Read me the story mommy, please.
My story. My favourite story. Right now. 

Honest to goodness, he can’t speak but it’s like he shouted or God did. The message got through and I did just what it asked. 

I stopped and, with all the enthusiasm I too could muster, read Alligator Pie, not once, not twice but three times. And then Goodnight Moon at the ripe hour of 9am. All the while he sat entranced from the safety of my crossed legs, us turning the pages together and him gazing with awestruck wonder between the pages and my eyes. 

It wasn’t until later that night I realized perhaps I was meant for roses after all. 

Share it! Share on FacebookPin on PinterestTweet about this on TwitterEmail this to someone

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *