I lean in to listen, gulping babe in arms, at the kitchen table.
It’s coming -  thing that I dread.
Hissing contraband on carpet tells me so.
Inward I groan and shift in the chair.
Across the threshold it sails -
veritable tanker of toys,
rubbermaid raft,
propelled by a four-year old on  mission.

The unspoken momma’s bill of rights begins to burn me up,
blazing trail for words to travel.
Five minutes.
I just want clean for five minutes.
No sippy cups.
No thrown pillows.
No blocks.
No books.
And certainly not this ragamuffin menagerie.

And just as I’m about to point out the obvious error of her ways,
Shadow chases shining from dark eyes -
and the look to me screams ugly truth.
She knows what’s coming.
It stops me cold – the no she’s grown to know.

And my soul hears the Spirit:
What would this “yes” cost?
I wince and count it slow -

one . cluttered .  floor . in . a . house .  that .  is .  not .  mine.

Hang a sign - etch truth in wood and mind.
My floor - my time – my tongue.
It’s all on loan.
And sometimes – this time – yes to her is yes to Him.
and Momma needs to say yes.

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