count them up: not enough hours in the day. not enough for an impossible to do list of practicality and creativity. but there are enough. ca suffit.
enough for kisses and snuggles and helping to support him when he wants to stand. enough for fuss fuss fussing and comforts when i’m not there to support him and he tumbles from his seated position or bangs a toy on sensitive gums or simply wakes frightened. there are enough hours to read a little to him, to read a little to me. to finish the laundry and cook dinner. there is enough time for cups of tea. there is time to sit and listen as my husband plays banjo. there are always spare moments for yoga stretching, if only i can remember to look for them. and somehow time seems to stretch when i set out on a ten-minute walk with dog on her leash and baby in his wrap and find myself wandering the neighborhood for most of an hour, enjoying the warmth and light of almost-spring.
there are not enough hours to knit something new every week and work on my nephew-to-be’s quilt and finish a novel at the drop of a hat and keep the house absolutely spotless and read everything. but that’s okay. compassion, compassion. the word that keeps coming back. time waits for no man, but a woman can find her own way.