I clean up from breakfast. Dump and rinse out remnants of milk from bowls, throw the banana peels in the compost, shrug and leave the Cheerios on the floor because someone under four feet tall will probably be delighted to find those later. Load the dishwasher, sip some coffee. Get interrupted at least four times during this process by a small toddler demanding “up!” (only he says it backwards: “puh!”), and refereeing disputes over who had what toy first from the bigger toddlers (do I have to call them “preschoolers” yet?).
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Load up the stroller with a big toddler and a little one. Make sure they are wearing appropriate footwear (aka any sort of footwear at all). Yell for the other big toddler to come baaaaack so I can snap his helmet on. Stash the sunscreen and some snacks (juuuust in case) down below, grab my sunglasses, and head off for a walk and a trip to the park.
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Lunch prep. Nothing fancy today. Scrambled eggs, slices of cheese, remove the tops of the strawberries and squish up some blueberries for the littlest one who is on a strawberry strike (just in time for strawberry season #ofcourse). Arrange all of the pieces on three little plates, set a napkin and a fork on their little placemats, which they may or may not use. Fill up two big cups and a sippy with milk. Six feet pound their way across the floor to the table.
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More meal prep. Not for us but for a friend who recently had a baby. Put on a movie for the big toddlers as their quiet time solution for the day while the “baby” naps. Chop and saute and stir and mix and arrange in a small foil pan. Pack it all up along with some fruit and cookies and extras to be delivered once the movie is done and the baby awakes.
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I push them in the swings. One, then another, and another. Push, push, push. Declare my pushing arms tired and create a spot for myself in the grass. Watch as two play in the sandbox and the third climbs the ladder of the playset. One runs over with tears and a hurt toe. Just as they have recovered another runs over because they tripped and fell and (sort of) skinned a knee. Just as they have recovered the third and final runs over with a fake cry to put his head in my lap, because apparently this is what all the cool kids are doing now and he wants to be included, too. I rub his back and they're all off again. Soon they will run over and demand more time on the swings. Push, push, push.
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It’s quiet, or will be soon. Clean-up time. The fort of too-many blankets, the wooden blocks strewn across the rug, the pretend pizza set with it’s 347 topping pieces scattered throughout the playroom. I bring order to the chaos as the sky darkens.
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Motherhood: a million little tasks, performed on repeat. It’s hard to see motherhood as this grand, sweeping, broad, beautiful thing that I often read about. I’m sure it is that, this broad stroke over our children’s lives. For now, I see it mostly in the day-to-day, minute-by-minute chores I complete (or try to complete, as the case may be).
Motherhood isn’t one big thing, but a million little things.
It’s the wiping and the cuddling, the meal prep and the snack prep and then doing it all over again, the laundry and the decluttering, the teaching and the turning to the screen when we need to.
These little things add up, over time, over hours and days and weeks and months and eventually years to build up what will become memories and our very own family culture. The little things must be what, collectively, become this big thing we call motherhood.
At least I hope so. Otherwise let me know so I can stop picking all of these darn pizza pieces off the floor.