Every day

Every day I wake up just long enough to kiss my husband goodbye.

Every day I wake up again to baby girl tugging on my hair. She's pulled her socks off by then because it's her favourite way to start the morning, or at least I can only assume so by her repetitiveness.

Every day baby girl gets her bowl and her spoon and eh-eh-eh's until I feed her yogurt and granola. The boy eats his granola with milk, while the preschooler declares, once again, that he hates granola and won't eat it; he spreads rosehip jam on toast and I scold him, once again, for licking the knife before dipping it back into the jar.

Every day I offer prayers of gratitude, and the first of them nearly always comes as I step under the deliciously hot water in the shower. It is a small moment of perfection right there.

Every day we sit side-by-side on the couch, snuggled under a quilt, as we read about Laura and Mary Ingalls and their family. Every day, "just one more chapter, pleeeeease?" and I agree if there's any time left at all. But eventually other things demand my attention and they run off to play Laura and Mary (always fighting over who gets to be Laura), and then the younger one changes the adventures a bit. "I'M LAURA INGALLS AND THIS IS MY SWORD!" he shouts, always shouts, because he hasn't yet discovered any other volumes. And so Laura goes to battle, because authenticity in play is dull, dull, dreadfully dull.

Every day there is noise. Happy noise, angry noise, the brokenhearted sobs of a baby who can't have something that she desires. Yelling and laughing and shouting and banging and so much noise.

Every day there are meals to prepare, dishes to wash, and diapers to change. By the time dinner is done and dishes are piled high, I'm slower. I'm tired. But I load the dishwasher and scrub the pots and wipe the counters and wash the table and then - at last - I hang the dishcloth over the faucet and breathe a sigh of relief. There's still bedtime for littles, but that's quieter work; the heavy stuff is done for the day.

Every day the husband and I drink London Fogs from our favourite tea mugs. Sometimes I make them, sometimes he makes them, and sometimes we make them together - boil the water, scoop the tea, warm the milk, fetch the vanilla syrup. Then we take that first delicious sip and thank each other - "No, thank you very much!" - and baby girl comes over to beg for some milk foam from the top.

Every day I snuggle into bed, the husband's left arm holding me close. He always falls asleep first while my brain keeps going going going while I will it to stop, just stop, until at last my eyes insist upon closing and my brain translates all that busy noise into the night's dreams, most of which will be long forgotten by morning.

Every day.