In an effort to keep my house somewhat clean (let’s just say that with two kids, I’ve given up on my ideal of what a clean house looks like), I vacuum because it’s been way too long since I last did it. I know that with a cat and a dog, I should probably vacuum every 2–3 days, but I pat myself on the back when I have time to do it once a week. No sooner have I finished the ground floor than my 7-month-old baby wakes up. I rush to finish, telling myself I’ll do the basement later (honestly, I don’t think my basement has been vacuumed in a month…). I go get my daughter and sit her in her high chair.
My 3-year-old then comes over to tell me he’s hungry and wants fish. I preheat the oven to bake some breaded fish (I know it’s not the healthiest option, but when time is tight, it fills a little monster’s stomach), put the rice in the rice cooker, chop up some carrots and broccoli to steam, and my daughter starts crying because she’s hungry too. I take the cubes of homemade puree out of the freezer and put a few of them in the microwave for 30 seconds. There’s no way I’m going to waste those precious seconds of my time waiting, so I start putting the vegetables I didn’t use back in the fridge and sigh when I see my pile of laundry waiting to be folded on the table. Beep! The purees are ready, but way too hot.
My baby cries even harder when she sees the bowl with her purees. I hear a million little clicks coming from the living room (the telltale sounds of: something just fell). I go to check and see rice all over the floor. My son had grabbed the rice jar without me noticing and had just spilled it all over the floor—which I’d vacuumed just 10 minutes earlier. I give my daughter the vegetable puree, but it’s no use—she’s screaming with her mouth shut (it’s pretty impressive how loud a baby can scream even with her mouth shut) because she won’t have anything to do with her vegetables. Since I realize I’m out of homemade fruit puree, I open a store-bought apple sauce (well, it’ll do for now). Beep! The fish is ready. I go to take it out of the oven, and when I turn around, I see that I’d left the jar of applesauce too close to the edge, so my daughter spilled it all over the table.
I’m starting to really lose my patience when my son comes up to me with a little flower (more like a weed) that he found in our yard. “Here, this is for you, Mom,” he says with the most beautiful smile in the world. I bend down and give him a gentle, precious hug. Oh, how I love my life!