What do you do all day?

I pack the lunches that won’t be eaten. 

Little love notes, tucked away inside. 

He told me once, 

“Mommy, I can’t read your handwriting.” 

I pour the milk 

And watch it teeter-totter on the edge, precariously.

It spills, crashing to the floor in a spray of white.

“Why do you refuse to give him a sippy cup?” my husband questions. 

“He’s four,” I reply, full of confidence that he will learn. 

Except he’s four, and he hasn’t.

I pull up a stool between my boys 

sitting purposely in the middle, 

feeling much like Switzerland must have felt during the world wars.

Trying desperately to neutralize the inferno that rises up during breakfast hour.

Opening a picture book to distract

I read Last Stop on Market Street. 

Our conversation turns to kindness, gratitude, skin color, and soup kitchens.

I take a mental note to reserve more books at the library.

I wipe the sticky goo off the counter

Was it honey? No, syrup, maybe boogers?

A sponge won’t do, bring out the knife. 

Counters are wiped, dishes are washed, 

Time for the vacuum but wait, who would invent a vacuum unable to suck up cheerios? 

I spend too long giggling to myself over this conundrum. 

Probably a man. 

I stand in your room, teaching you how to fold

Up and over and down, then turn, and repeat. 

It’s only a washcloth and your attention span only lasts through the underwear, 

I hold a t-shirt up too small for you and add it to the pile for donation.

I can’t keep up with your growth rate, I’m astounded by the stains, 

yet thankful for the therapy which folding laundry gives me.

We listen to one of our favorite songs on the ride to school - Bullfrog Opera. 

From the backseat I hear, “what is a symphony?”

“Which is taller, the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty?” 

In a matter of minutes, we’ve mapped out New York City through song,

learned about literature through lyrics, 

and discussed architecture, engineering and geography. 

The ride to school is 12 minutes long.

I push the train around the track, my little finger resting on the imaginary smokestack.

I load and unload my cargo on container ships, 

and you fill your steam engine with pretend water.

I try to remain present, block out thoughts of 

bills to be paid, 

calls to be made,

exercise that won’t happen today.

I look up and catch your smile as you wrap your arms tightly around my neck.

“I love our Mommy-Luca time,” 

you whisper in my ear. 

I towel dry you off unsure if it’s the bath water or your tears I’m wiping away.

Does bath time always have to end in a fight between you two?

I hold you both on the soaking wet floor, 

the steam curls my hair into ringlets.

We chat about the power of our words, and

I begin my soap box, “Our words can build someone up, or tear someone down.”

In unison you finish my thoughts, “and we choose.”

I furiously text a friend, “Have you seen the results from tryouts yet?”

Another girlfriend writes, “We’re sitting this season out, not sure we’re ready for 

competitive soccer.”

Another mom asks for our fall schedule for swim team, it’s barely springtime.

I open up my calendar and begin another night of coordinating, researching, and planning.

These events will become our life for the next year and I

schedule in unscheduled time, as if time were something I can actually control.

I hit the pillow hard, after a hot shower 

I hear my son screaming. Is it a dream? 

The scent of urine stops me in the doorway. Nope.

 Both boys are awake and shrieking. Sigh.

“Accidents happen, let’s get cleaned up, it’s okay love.” I reassure.

Disoriented and exhausted

I climb the stairs to do one more load of laundry.

Except, wait, we’re out of Tide.

I don’t need a badge, or a gold star

I don’t have it the worst, or feel I’m ever at my best

I know who I am in their eyes, and His

I know they are a gift 

My work goes unnoticed, unacknowledged

I am unpaid, and largely unregulated. 

But I am in love and they, 

they are my labor.