Tattooed with Love
Having two small children has taught me to function in a relatively normal way even while in the midst of much noise and activity. This is not to say that I don’t try to manage the noise level in my house …ie: “Carter bring your high-pitched-excited-voice down a few octaves!” and “Mykah, No screaming, that is unacceptable.” But I have learned to (most of the time) accept that the peace and quiet I was used to before I had kids, is only now seen in rare intervals, usually after my little munchkins are tucked into bed for the night.
I had a relapse last Wednesday. Jeff was at Prayer Meeting, and the kids and I had just finished dinner, which, in case you were wondering, was absolutely delicious banana-pecan pancakes. I told them to go play upstairs before it was time to get ready for bed. Miraculously, they went. And then another “miracle” occurred…a half hour went by in which I was able to check my email and clean up the kitchen with no interruptions. The only problem was that at around minute 33, I realized I had heard absolutely no noise coming from upstairs, hence my relapse into a sort of before-I-had-kids-thinking in which I only have to be concerned with myself. Oops.
If you have no children and are reading this, you may not understand the problem with 33 minutes to yourself in the evening.
But if you happen to be a parent and are reading this, you already know that 33 minutes to yourself in the evening usually follows by some sort of destruction of property involving nail polish or toothpaste or both, or a call to Poison Control or at the very least, every bit and every piece to every toy, game and puzzle will be on the floor of one of kid’s rooms.
Last Wednesday, I forgot.
At minute 33, this is what I heard from the top of the stairs. “I wrote on Mykah’s face because I love her.”
When they both came down the stairs seconds later, I had one of those moments when as a parent, you are trying to instantly size up the situation and come up with an appropriate response.
I looked at Mykah, proudly pointing to her black marker-ed cheeks. I looked at Carter, who was much more timidly approaching me. I tried to summon from deep within a stern voice in which to reprimand them both.
And then I laughed. Oh, how I laughed.
And then I grabbed the camera.
The strangest thought I kept thinking about was how still Mykah had sat in order to have Carter’s “love” decorating her face. I wondered just what he had said to her, that she was willing to participate in this artistic venture. I wondered if he had described the masterpieces he was going to draw or if, all on her own, she decided to trust him with her face.
During worship on Sunday, I felt God whisper to me, “When is the last time you sat still enough to experience MY love?”
Here I am, Lord. Tattoo away.