Day On

Yesterday, Tuck played outside and had lunch, and I gave him a bath.  Then he ran, naked and dripping, to his room, climbed up onto his bed. And peed.
I rinsed him in the tub again, diapered him, and stripped his sheets. While I put clean linens on his mattress, in the room across the hall he found and opened a bottle of "Mommy's toe polish" and painted some of his piggies and most of our bedding a springy shade of pink.
I scrubbed him with polish remover and bathed him again.  I started the first load of laundry.  And I made a mental note not to leave nail polish out.

Although they're not typically siphoned in such catastrophic style, the job of domestic operative leaves me without a solitary spare atom of energy.  However, aside from the sheer exhaustion of the job, of tending toddlers and handling housework, the domestic dash is always punctuated by wonder.  I am stilled by the steady thought that he is ours and he is wonderful.  He is two and he is healthy and curious and mischievous and kind.  He - and his sister - keep me from sinking into that place where I forget what really matters.  He is a heap of happy mess.
Last night, Tuck crawled into clean sheets and said "This my new bed.  Fank you, Mama."
But I'm pretty sure I should have been thanking him.

JEB