We are reading Green Eggs and Ham nearly a dozen times a day right now and I confess there are mornings I want to hide the obnoxious orange book before my son wakes. As I read the too familiar words I think Look kiddo, he is going to surrender and he’s going to eat the eggs, okay? He is going to eat them on a moat and on a homecoming float and on a yacht and in his cot and wherever else Sam asks him to eat the weird freaking green eggs. You know who else does not like Green Eggs and Ham?!
But, as he so often does, my son is teaching me a lesson. He wakes up not wanting to hide the story he’s heard infinity times. He wakes up ready to read it all over again. He wakes up excited the story hasn’t changed. He wants to experience the story each day, throughout the day, because it’s exciting and fun and unusual, and though there is that one scary blue paged section, it ends better than he could have imagined.
I think this two year-old string cheese connoisseur could really be onto something.
My same old sweats and same old frustrations and same old joys are telling me there is a message in the monotony. All of motherhood just might be a living love letter. It might be a story worth reading every day, throughout the day. One written to us from God.
This chaos, this merry insanity. These days which are the days. These babies and this work and these homes and meals and piles and playdates. To us from God.
Message delivered. Tell me again tomorrow.
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This article originally appeared at Coffee + Crumbs
