A lot of motherhood is cleaning up the same messes over and over again. Some times it feels like the whole day is soaked up in a trail of following the messes that are streaming behind the tiny feet running through our house. Sweeping the crumbs, mopping the floor, wiping the toilet seat, cleaning the dishes. And just when everything feels put back together again the boys are shuttled off to bed and the mess is magically still there. Wash, rinse, dry, repeat. And repeat, repeat, repeat.
A lot of motherhood is saying the same phrases over and over again. Pick up your shoes, don't put that in your mouth, please flush the toilet, do not eat your brothers toes, can't we all just get along? And just when night time comes and I run out of phrases, out come the night time expressions. Stay in your bed, this is the last song, please go to sleep, and then a rolling thunder of I love you, I love you, I love, goodnight, as I slowly back out of the door. And repeat, repeat, repeat.
Yet, the grimy messes and the stale sayings all blur together with this sweet consistency of what it means to be a mama. And it becomes not that repetitious at all, but more like a comforting constant of life. And it's smooth, and dependable, and soothing. And nice. The repitition of mothering is really, really nice.
I can see it in my photos. Any of my photos could be switched around in different ways, in different groups, in differed orders, because really they all could have come from the same day. Just shuffle them up a bit and draw a few out and other than the length of someones hair or the stains on an outfit there's really no telling which day they came from. It's just like one big day.
One big day where one big evening is always spent like this.
Maybe we went to the store that night or maybe we stayed home and had tacos, or frozen pizza, but at the end of every day, whether it's in a small way or a big way somebody is always laughing. Somebody is always happy.
Somebody giggles, somebody makes a silly face. Somebody gets scared and cries and then decides it's ok to make silly faces again.
There's always daddy time.
Sometimes there is ice cream time.
Always there is mess time.
Which is almost always followed by bathy time.
All of the days are the same, with the same elements, all switched around and stacked in different ways, but the same ideas are all there. They're always there.
After bath time we shuttle the boys off to bed and I sing their songs and remind Bub this is the last song, and please go to sleep, and to Teeber I plead please stay in your bed. And then I slip out of the door in a fog of I love you, I love, goodnight, I love you, only to tackle the messes that appeared while I was cleaning up other messes. And when all that is done, with any luck, I'm feeling at least a little grateful, and I can crawl in under the covers and get ready for another day of the same messes, and the same phrases, but also the same happiness tomorrow.