Busy
Yesterday was a busy day.
Aside from the regular routine of rolling out playdough, cleaning up glitter glue of my son's bald head and chasing two giggling kids up and down two flights of stairs, there was a mountain of laundry calling my name and sticky peanut butter handprints decorating my hardwood floor. It was also one of those days where I rarely made it out of the kitchen. By the time I had breakfast cleaned up, I glanced at my watch and realized that I had better make lunch for my husband who had been busy working in the basement all morning, skipping breakfast, and would be in need of something hot and sufficient to fill his hollow leg. Once the soup bowls were added to the dish washer and the floor once again swept and mopped to eradicate all traces of mashed banana and cheerios that had been unceremoniously dumped over the side of the high chair, I barely had an hour to tackle my chores before it was time to don my apron and do it all again.
Seriously! Although my resume currently boasts a variety of specialties including and not limited to; nurse, teacher, laundry technician, counsellor, pack mule, taxi driver and mediator...somedays I feel like nothing more than a short order cook doing my own dishes.
But before I stray dreadfully on that noteworthy tangent (I'll speak further on that subject someday soon), let me get back to yesterday:
I am not sure I even had a chance to sit down before 7pm, when I found myself sprawled out on the floor reading board books to my son who was furiously busy pulling them off his bookshelf by the handful. I took a moment to consider myself. I had actually taken a shower that morning, but was interrupted somewhere along the line and never had a chance to even run a comb through my tresses. While this wouldn't have been an issue 2 years ago, now "post-baby" my once naturally bone straight hair has taken on strange curls and kinks that morph into awful frizz if left unattended. In addition to that, the jeans and t-shirt I had found on the floor when I stepped out of bed earlier that day were now bearing witness to my day's activities. Glitter glue, greasy handprints, Dora stickers and Butter Chicken sauce now festooned them in a random and awkward pattern.
While I was considering how awful I looked and exhausted I felt, my lovely 2 year old daughter pranced into my son's room and sidled up to me, reaching down to pat my head and run her delicate fingers through my uncoiffed hair.
"You are beautiful" Mommy," she proclaimed, and then skipped out at fast as she had appeared.
And in that moment...I actually felt it.
Aside from the regular routine of rolling out playdough, cleaning up glitter glue of my son's bald head and chasing two giggling kids up and down two flights of stairs, there was a mountain of laundry calling my name and sticky peanut butter handprints decorating my hardwood floor. It was also one of those days where I rarely made it out of the kitchen. By the time I had breakfast cleaned up, I glanced at my watch and realized that I had better make lunch for my husband who had been busy working in the basement all morning, skipping breakfast, and would be in need of something hot and sufficient to fill his hollow leg. Once the soup bowls were added to the dish washer and the floor once again swept and mopped to eradicate all traces of mashed banana and cheerios that had been unceremoniously dumped over the side of the high chair, I barely had an hour to tackle my chores before it was time to don my apron and do it all again.
Seriously! Although my resume currently boasts a variety of specialties including and not limited to; nurse, teacher, laundry technician, counsellor, pack mule, taxi driver and mediator...somedays I feel like nothing more than a short order cook doing my own dishes.
But before I stray dreadfully on that noteworthy tangent (I'll speak further on that subject someday soon), let me get back to yesterday:
I am not sure I even had a chance to sit down before 7pm, when I found myself sprawled out on the floor reading board books to my son who was furiously busy pulling them off his bookshelf by the handful. I took a moment to consider myself. I had actually taken a shower that morning, but was interrupted somewhere along the line and never had a chance to even run a comb through my tresses. While this wouldn't have been an issue 2 years ago, now "post-baby" my once naturally bone straight hair has taken on strange curls and kinks that morph into awful frizz if left unattended. In addition to that, the jeans and t-shirt I had found on the floor when I stepped out of bed earlier that day were now bearing witness to my day's activities. Glitter glue, greasy handprints, Dora stickers and Butter Chicken sauce now festooned them in a random and awkward pattern.
While I was considering how awful I looked and exhausted I felt, my lovely 2 year old daughter pranced into my son's room and sidled up to me, reaching down to pat my head and run her delicate fingers through my uncoiffed hair.
"You are beautiful" Mommy," she proclaimed, and then skipped out at fast as she had appeared.
And in that moment...I actually felt it.
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