Every day contains some degree of chaos...

Photo by Phil Hearing on Unsplash

It’s 8pm and the kids are finally asleep upstairs. The baby monitor—a continual whir of sound machines as background noise, and my daily soundtrack for the past 2.5 years—rotates between the boys’ rooms as I make a cup of tea.

Jim is in the backyard bagging a pile of leaves that we raked last fall and apparently forgot about. I only noticed the pile a few days ago when we checked on the magnolia tree; fuzzy ivory buds decorate its branches and we’re eagerly waiting for the pink and white blossoms to arrive.

I watch Jim pick up leaves from inside the kitchen window where everything is finally quiet. I love this view—the sprawling yard that stretches down the hill and beyond the creek; the way the trees mask our view of nearby houses and provide a cove of solitude within city limits; the pair of swings hung from the old tree; Jim caring for the lawn, caring for our home.

There’s something deeply satisfying about the moments immediately after we get the kids to bed. It feels like a small win. We did it; we survived another day.

Every day contains some degree of chaos, mostly from Loren. We know Kai will get there too, but nothing competes with the craziness of a toddler. (Well, ask me again when they’re teenagers.) Loren grabbing a permanent marker and coloring on the hardwood floors; Loren opening a bottle of pink paint and banging it upside down on the table, paint splattering everywhere; Loren squirting lotion onto his rug. That was all today, by the way.

Every day requires mediation—splitting the kids up or sitting directly between them to minimize the madness. Loren kicking, pushing, or hitting baby brother. Loren laying on baby brother. Loren throwing toys, rocks, or food at baby brother. (Poor baby brother!)

If Loren is in a spitting phase, then Mommy is in a try-not-to-lose-your-shit phase.

If Loren is in a throw-your-shoes-and-socks-and-scarf-into-the-cat’s-water-bowl phase, then Mommy is in a hold-your-breath-and-try-not-to-say-are-you-f*cking-kidding-me phase.

If Loren is in a dump-your-entire-plate-onto-the-floor phase, and a refuse-to-use-the-potty phase, and a jump-on-the-bed-when-we-ask-you-to-lay-down phase, then Mommy is in a step-away-and-take-five-deep-breaths phase.

It’s dark now, the sun having set twenty minutes ago. Jim’s carrying two bags of leaves up the hill. It’s fairly steep, so his pace slows significantly. From the looks of it, the pile of leaves is finally gone, some six months after we intended to clear them. I can’t think of a more appropriate metaphor for this season of parenting.

Our to-do list isn’t shrinking with record speed over here, and that’s okay.

Every day contains magic. Loren running to me, unprompted, and throwing himself at me for a hug. The way he’s recently started singing and attempting to match pitch. The inflections in his voice when he speaks. Kai saying a new word, or playing contently with a genuine smile on his face. Kai calming down the moment he’s in my arms. The boys sitting across from each other in their car seats and laughing together.

The magical moments are endless, too, and we’re learning firsthand that those moments are fleeting. They’re gone too soon, so we try to embrace them while we can. The leaves, among other house projects, can wait. We’ll get to them eventually.