Our guest blogger today is Natalie Roehrig, a mom to four young children ages 5, 3, 2, and 1.  Natalie says “I am fortunate to be able to stay at home since the birth of our first child.  I relish all the time spent with my children and do my best to focus on being a great mom and wife.  Most days are filled with endless moments of joy mixed in with dirty diapers, tantrums, and mountains of laundry.  I wouldn’t change anything!”

I grab the laundry basket and take off to my bedroom.  I separate and fold the clothes into six neat piles, folding quickly and efficiently while I have a few minutes away from the other four children.  I stop to stare at my piles for a moment and push them on the ground.  I call to my son, M, to come quickly.  He runs into the room and I jump under the covers.  “Quick, M, the boat is sailing away to Dragon Island.  You must get on and help capture the dragons!”  His face lights up and he dives under the covers with me.  We pretend the boat is sailing in a big storm.  M adds sharks to the churning, stormy waters.  We make it to the island and draw our swords to fight off the numerous, furious dragons that won’t stop attacking.  It is intense!  We battle those dragons for a while, hiding under the covers when they swoop down for the attack.  M is in heaven, his face serious when we are under attack, but with a glimmer that is unmistakably shining in his big brown eyes.  Soon our moment alone is interrupted by V and Z, but we continued on, including them.
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Makeup is my futile attempt at making myself more presentable during the endless days of sweats.  I call to my V and she skips in to the bathroom.  She asks to sit on the counter and I gladly hoist her petite body, bringing her closer to me.  She gets her own makeup brush and sparkling powder.  She applies the powder strategically to her face.  We talk about being Princesses and going to Balls dressed in our prettiest gowns.  She sweetly asks me to curl her hair, “Just a little bit of curl, please.”  I listen to her high-pitched, smooth voice sing a song as I wrap a baby-fine strand around the curling iron.  A bouncing ringlet forms under the heat and V’s eyebrows arch in surprise and delight.  “Wow, it’s beautiful!” she exclaims.  She turns around and wraps her hands around my neck and gives me a kiss with her full lips.  Sparkles transfer all over my face and I leave them.  Z cries from the next room and we turn the light off on our small, but special, moment.
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Z has just turned one and we still share the bonding ritual of nursing.  I cradle him in my arms and admire his baby face.  I caress the chubby cheeks and soft eyebrows.  He drinks in large gulps and opens his eyes.  We lock in a bonded stare, studying each other’s face.  He cracks a smile, while barely pausing in his milk consumption, and then returns to drinking.  I look away for a bit, knowing that when my glance is returned to his pale, smooth face it will be met with another love stare.  It is always a joy to nurse Z, to have our moment and enjoy this ritual while it lasts.  When he has finished his meal I could put him down and watch him crawl away, on to another adventure, but I sit him on my lap and tickle him.  His deep laugh resonates through the house.  When he is done we play a round of patty cake.  He claps and shrieks with excitement and giggles some more.  The laughing draws the others to us and our moment has ended, for now.
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N is in kindergarten.  The transition to her being gone all day, every day, has been a tough one on both of us.  Days spent together have been replaced with short amounts of time that we need to make the most of.  N runs off the bus as fast as she can, every day.  She leaps into my arms and I squeeze.  We cuddle on the chair together.  She tells me about her day.  I ask endless questions, searching for information.  She tires from the questions and says, “Just hold me, Mom.”  I do.  Tightly.  I rock back and forth, stroking her face and leaning in for kisses.  She doesn’t fit in my arms like her 5-lb-3-oz-newborn body once did, but yet it still feels right and works.  The longer we sit, the more she ends up telling me about school.  I learn about friends I have not yet met, about her admiration for the teacher.  More information that makes me feel better about the decision we made to send her to public school.  We rock and hold on to each other until one of the other three needs me and ends our moment.
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In an ideal world, I would be able to take each child out for a whole day of one-on-one time, once a month.  That doesn’t happen; it’s not an ideal world.  Instead, I try to take time each day to make special moments with the children.  A few minutes here and there are treasured by them and me.  I used to worry about the laundry not getting folded; now I can push it aside and create a bright spot with M.  I linger a few minutes longer, holding Z while he sleeps before gently putting him down for a nap.  My daily tasks can take up more time when I include a little one, but they are next to me and we are creating special moments together.  It doesn’t matter how or when or length, it’s about the quality of the time—and what you make of it.