OLLIVANTHOUSE

My son has been here for 6 months as of March 1st. I don’t remember time slipping by this quickly with Frances, or maybe the habit of checking off her monthly milestones made me more cognizant of the days, slowing down the weeks.

There is a rhythm to having one that I found easy to match on a daily basis. Looking back on the brief period I technically had “2 under 2” feels like holding down the button on the remote to scrub through a long movie. No day resembled the last. No routine I tried to create would stand up to the whims of my toddler and newborn.

Lately I have been feeling like the small tasks that bring beauty and order to our days are more akin to a Sisyphean effort. Everyday the bed needs to be made. The dishes need to be done. At least once a day I get down on my knees to get the crumbs out of the rug in front of the couch. There is no getting ahead. No one can spend the day making and re-making the bed for the entire week. You can’t prevent the spills or stains or crumbs; you can only treat them as they come. This feels like grace to me. The part of the prayer that says “Give us this day our daily bread” rings clearer and truer now as a mother.

Tomorrow there will be more laundry to fold and a dishwasher to unload. But in the morning I get to pull a shot of espresso for my husband and my daughter will eagerly try to help me make the bed.

— m.o.