Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again’; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy.     –G.K. Chesterton

It used to be on a fire escape in the city, with a glass of wine on the windowsill. Or in a silent room (my favorite kind), buried underneath a blanket with a book. Or in bed on Saturday with half the morning gone before thoughts of starting the day even begin to be entertained.

Fitting, then, that The Kid announced his arrival on a Saturday morning: a trip to the bathroom, the frantic communication and packing of bags, the last time we would ever really sleep in.

Peace and quiet looks different these days.

I think I’ve mislabeled a lot of it as boredom. It’s what The Husband and I talk about since I’ve been staying home with The Kid, that this parenthood thing, it’s not hard–not like rocket science, or grad school, or benching 250. It’s hard in the day-to-dayness of it, the endless repetitions, the…simplicity.

It’s boring, is what I’m saying.

You can Pinterest your creative snacks all you want, but I’ll have to openly call you a liar if you demand that pushing a swing three hundred times in the summer heat never gets old.

Monotony can appear to be a thief of excitement, which can lead it to appear to be a thief, sometimes, of joy. But I’m learning the lie in this appearance, one trip to the hammock at a time. One waiting room, one PT session, one speech therapy visit, one diaper at a time. I’m learning that I can be the greatest thief of joy. I’m learning the balance between calling a spade a spade and finding the beauty in the dullest-seeming of moments.

It’s a hard lesson, but not rocket-science-hard. More like one-I-have-to-learn-over-and-over hard. How convenient that I have a tiny teacher who’s perfect for the job.

There are hours when I sit in on a neck-stretching session and imagine lying on a beach instead. Or moments when a nightly glass of wine is interrupted by a fit of toddler sleeplessness. Or trips out of town when an afternoon in the water turns into an afternoon in a hotel room. Playing Disney videos and stacking blocks instead of erecting a flag in the sand that will alert someone to bring me a drink.

And it’s all very selfish, of course, to think this way, because people who become parents are supposed to, overnight, stop wanting the things they used to and start wanting the things a toddler wants. Nilla Wafers, crappy TV, crack-of-dawn wake-up calls. The unfortunate part is that selfishness was the thing I was best at, and being asked to give it up on a daily basis can tend to be a battle.

A lot has been written lately about giving kids the gift of boredom–less camp-filled and more dirt-filled summers–and I’m all in for that. But I don’t want to miss the gift that boredom can be for us, as parents, as adults. I don’t want to miss the grin that is blinding only because I wasn’t expecting it while I was swinging him and wishing for my phone. I don’t want to miss the quick high-five he gives his therapist because I was inwardly groaning about how, with a forty-dollar copay, this is one expensive hour of baby-sitting that I have to be present for. I don’t want to miss the way he says his one word, apple, differently now while we’re eating because I can’t hear the interview on the Today show. I don’t want to miss his reaction to our voices over the monitor–shock and a quick-as-lightning return to prone position–and the opportunity to laugh about it with TH because Game of Thrones is, like, so good this week.

I don’t want to miss the gifts that come not in wind, earthquakes, or fire (beaches, bars, sleeping in) but in whispers.

Earlier this week, I lay in a darkened room next to a screen that had just been filled with pictures of our #2 touching his toe to his elbow. While I waited for the doctor, I felt boredom sneak in: my cell phone was out of battery, TK was at home, and I was alone with my thoughts in the cool quiet. The solitude felt strange, since it’s so rare these days–it’s easy to joke that once you’re married and/or a parent, you’ll never be alone again. Then I felt the kicking inside and realized I wasn’t alone. And I felt the love that comes with the kicking, the swinging, the endless repetition, the fact that there is a source of all the gifts, right there with me in the middle of the moment–and I realized I never had been.

“The useless days will add up to something [because] these things are your becoming.”     —Cheryl Strayed