Falling into Glitter

This story begins in a tiny hospital delivery room on a rainy November afternoon.

Fast forward nine years, and there is glitter on the kitchen towels.

***

My budding astronomers plant themselves at the table, squabble over the black markers, and scribble sheets of white paper to look like the night sky studded with stars.

Thinking everything is under control, I sneak away for a bathroom break, clicking the door shut behind me. (I will pause while you laugh at my foolishness.)

At first, the soundtrack of their scribbles and giggles is pleasant, and I am not complaining about the absence of little fingers wedging themselves into the crack under the door. Then, it is suddenly quiet.

(Uh oh.)

It isn’t long before “Mommy!” thunders through the same crack whose emptiness I celebrated moments before.

From behind the bathroom door, I suspect a minor glitter glue mess, maybe a disagreement over a pair of scissors, or a glass of spilled milk. Deep down, though, something tells me they found the glitter.

I can picture them pulling it out deep, dark corners of the craft cupboard, coating their paper in blobs of white glue, opening a few tubes, and dumping more than they need onto their sticky glue night sky scenes.

So when I emerge from the other side of the bathroom door seconds later to a cringeworthy scene, I am met with (very) fleeting satisfaction that my suspicions are correct.

The three year old is working on something that resembles a snow angel in a pile of glitter on the floor. The six year old looks a little guilty, and despite my efforts to confiscate the rest of the glitter, the eight year old insists on “just a little more,” and dumps out whatever is left in the tube before I even reach the table with a grin on her face.

Despite my rising blood pressure, I take a deep breath, exhale, and resign myself to glitter clean up.

***

Motherhood is falling into glitter.

At first, it’s everywhere. It’s messy. It’s impossible to hide despite my sometimes desperation to do exactly that, and I couldn’t clean it up if I tried.

But eventually the glue dries and the glitter starts to float away.

I pack away the newborn clothes. The crib and the board books join the baby clothes in storage. The stroller gathers dust in the garage. Milk dries up. No one calls out for me in the night. (I’m still waiting for that one.) Suddenly grown children start school.

Each shift in the seasons of motherhood releases another shimmering deluge I am tempted to race to clean.

***

I try to erase the sparkly remnants of craft time, but there is little hope. I warily swipe a few piles off the edge of the table, decorating myself in the process. I dampen a paper towel in a futile effort to wipe at least a little of it off the floor. I scoop another pile off the table (covering the floor again) and, I move the dripping, glittering art out of reach as quickly as possible.

The three year old sneaks upstairs and leaves behind a glitter trail that betrays her escape attempt. Now, there is a dusting of glitter on the couch, the living room floor, the stairs, and my bed along with her hair and fingers.

The older sisters wash their hands as thoroughly as only children can, leaving glittery kitchen towels behind.

My husband, who is working in a different room with the door closed, emerges an hour later sporting a speck of glitter on his cheek.

Thanks to a few teaspoons of glitter, my house is not clean, but it is definitely sparkling.

***

As the years pass since that November afternoon delivery room glitter plunge, I catch myself spending less time mopping up both literal and figurative glitter. But I still find it often enough: a speck on my cheek and another in a prayer (and another in the third sibling fight I’ve settled today).

But eventually, unexpectedly, instead of fuming and scrambling to banish these specks to the trash, I tuck them safely away, willing them to stick to my soul.

I imagine myself, decades from now, hopefully with grandchildren, smiling as I continue to find shimmering specks.

I’m still hiding the craft glitter, but I kind of like the way motherhood sticks.

Despite the mess, we sparkle.

By: Kate Croft