This afternoon and evening, I was going to be productive.
You know those kind of days….you’ve got eight times more on your “to-do” list than you could possibly accomplish even if you didn’t have two tinies, one of whom is potty training and the other, just 11 days old. But, full of good intentions and a little self-delusion, you decide to embark on it anyway.
And your tiny children simply can’t allow it.
I pulled out the vacuum. I poured water into my bucket to scrub my kitchen floor. I had my eye on the bookshelves, covered as they were in dust an inch thick. And a vague hope of maybe getting to the washroom before the night was over. And then there were the thank-you cards and the filing cabinet to organise and the laundry to fold., the dishwasher to empty, supper to cook..
“Game on,” said my children to each other. “Game on.”
The smallest tiny decided that now was as good a time as any for a nursing marathon. So he’s been latched onto me, non-stop, for about 5 hours. He’s refused to go to sleep even though he’s exhausted (and so am I!). He doesn’t want the sling. He doesn’t want to be laid down. He won’t tolerate being in the bassinette. No, Mumma. It’s the boob or nothing. And he shrieked until it was so.
And the bigger tiny is pulling crackers out the cupboard because she thinks her Mummy is hungry. She’s taking her clothes off because she wants to “dance naykid”. She’s making soap bubbles in the bathroom sink and then decorating the mirror with them because they are so “pwetty.” And then tripping over the toy piano in the middle of the floor and bursting into tears because of the “wowie” and begging for “tyonol” because of the “huwt”.
The bargaining is on. One is finally settled and nursing happily. But the other one has a memory now and will remember if I choose the baby over her in her moment of need. So I put the baby down and we “doctor up” the “wowie” while the tiniest one makes known how unhappy he is with this arrangement.
Balance, balance. Tightrope, tightrope. Careful….steady now!
So now the tiniest one is settled in his bassinette, tummy full, happily filling his diaper and off in dreamland – FINALLY. I have a moment. What to do? Finish the chores or…
Two favourite stories, Goodnight Moon and Two Little Gardeners, were read out loud to Annie and her Pooh bear. She has been snuggled and kissed and Ozonoled and tucked in. I left her in the middle of her blankets and we blew kisses to each other all the way out of the door.
Now I’ve collapsed in the living room and surveyed the damage. Toys strewn everywhere. A kitchen that is messier than it was even beforehand. A half-vacuumed floor. A washed kitchen floor, somehow in the midst of the chaos because it was a fun chore for Anne to help out with. A splitting headache and a sore back. Nothing accomplished. If anything, more to do.
But I’ve picked up my son after singing my daughter to sleep and now we’re rocking in our rocking chair, his head against my heartbeat. I’ve decided to worry about it tomorrow. Or the next day.
In my mother’s bedroom was an embroidered picture that read:
“Cleaning and scrubbing can wait til tomorrow
For babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep
I’m rocking my baby for babies don’t keep.”
