Everyday

Saturday is pancake day.

I make my coffee and pull out my Bible and journal, lingering over it all. I savor the peacefulness of a slow start, waiting until sleepy-headed boys stagger into the living room, rubbing their eyes. My oldest now looks me in the eye, and my youngest stands up to my chin. They're hardly my "little" boys anymore. They plop down on the couch until they wake up ever so slightly, then they’re ready to cook.

My youngest has the recipe memorized. He pulls out the flour and baking powder and eggs, insisting on cracking at least one egg. He mixes the batter while my oldest pulls out butter, syrup and peanut butter, all the fixings for later, then starts the stove. He pours the batter and flips the pancakes as I watch. I don't warn him to be careful anymore because he can do this as well as I can. My youngest pulls out plates and forks, ready for the first pancake to come off the skillet.

As we sit down to eat buttery pancakes and crispy bacon, I breathe a silent prayer of thanks for these times with these boys. It's bittersweet. As much as I love it, my heart hurts, because I have such a short time left with them. In five years, my oldest will graduate high school. My youngest will follow in eight. I'm not ready for this season to end. Why won't time just slow down?

Time doesn't slow down, though, so I’m trying instead to slow myself down. I’m savoring little moments—cuddling as we watch TV, family dinners at the table, hours-long Monopoly games as we strategize and munch on chips and cheese dip. I want to spend time talking, really talking, to my kids about the important things in life and the silly little everyday things. I want to laugh with them. I want to burn the memories of this life into my brain, because it won’t last forever. Our normal, our everyday, is changing fast.

I learned from my own growing up years that life isn't made of the big moments. They'll remember those, too—the trips to Disney World, Christmases with piles of gifts, monster truck shows and concerts. But the biggest memories of their childhood will likely be the smallest ones—the snippets of everyday life that happened over and over. They'll remember pancakes on Saturdays, the whole family cuddling and giggling before bed, homeschool work in the Sunday School rooms while their daddy works in his office.

The big things are fun, but life isn't made of big things. It's made of a thousand tiny moments, weaving together to form a big picture. I want my kids to look back and love that picture. I want them to know that in the everyday, they were loved beyond measure.