Full-Contact Motherhood

My day begins at ten pm. That's when Cookie yells out to the darkness of her room. Her timing is right on cue: my turn to lay down, hers to get up. It's as if unloading the weight of my day triggers a bed pressure alarm, and her siren wail begins. If I let her go on, she'll gag herself- she's one of those kids who proves a point with throw up- so quickly I snatch her up. I dry her tears and hold her close, shooshing until the sobs subside. Her body grows heavy in my arms so we lie down together. Thus begins my night of co-sleeping. We punch the clock on Hour One of the next twenty-one hours of full-contact motherhood.

Full contact sleep

The bounding of Nug's feet awakens us in the morning. She climbs up the side of the bed and flops her warm body across my chest. She's eager to reach Cookie, not me, and her curls tickle my face as she greets her sister with sweet urgency. Cookie clings to me as she adjusts to wakefulness, all the while smiling at Nug's squealing buffet of love. I soak it in, limbs and breath and weight enough to suffocate me, but it doesn't. Thus we meet the day; Hour Nine.

Nug turns grumpy this morning- something is brewing- but she and W manage to walk out on time. Five minutes later the door opens and crying fills the house. Nug's plea for mommy is desperate; the meltdown hit before her seat belt had even latched. I adjust my balance, scoop up Nug and drop Cookie into W's arms. The weeps coming from my big girl are loud but her nuzzling is tender; Hour Ten.

It's midday and there is a wet chill in the January air. Behind the gate, the kids are puffed-out in their bright coats, like a line of rainbow Peeps on their preschool bench. Nug sees me coming and, with a sly look, darts from her row of companions. I brace myself for the force of her hug. She pulls Cookie down from my arms and puts her in a loving choke hold; Hour Fourteen.

At home we play: tea party, music class, dance, magnet blocks, dress-up. Nug begs me to read stories but Cookie only wants to tear and eat them, so we can't. They fight for my lap. One crawls in while the other circles us like a shark, hungry for her turn. If I lie down, there will be more surface area for them to use, I think. Instead, they both go straight for my face and roll across my nose, giggling; Hour Fifteen.

Secret snapshot of "music class"

Cookie is ready to nap, her finger has been in her mouth for the last hour. We ascend to the cozy quiet of their shared room and she nods off in my arms, snoring. I'm thankful each time she falls asleep quickly because the three-year-old downstairs can only entertain herself for so long. Carefully I lift her into the crib but as soon as she touches the sheets, she's up. We repeat this sleep-wake game until Nug calls out in loneliness and I admit defeat. I slide Cookie onto my back and snap the carrier. Within minutes, her body slumps against mine in surrender; Hour Seventeen.

asleep on my back in the carrier

The sun sets and our tummies rumble. Little hands reach around me in the kitchen, stealing bites of dinner before it is ready. Cookie takes the crumbles that fall as she opens cabinets and pulls on my pant legs. Wait- what's that? Mama's home! Dinner is a kaleidoscope of sticky rice, shredded cheese, and conversation. Nug side-steps from her chair to mine, trying to sneak into my lap. Can I just eat by myself? I send her to mama; Hour Nineteen.

W steps in for bath time, eager for a munchkin space invasion. Everyone gets a scrub while I'm alone to scrub the dishes. My shoulders fall with this simple, solitary task. Shortly I'm called back to duty: wet babies await their towels. I walk slowly up the stairs, having gotten a taste for peace and quiet and wanting to relish it a bit longer. I wrap the baby like a fortune cookie, the goodness inside. Then diaper, lotion, pajamas, kisses, and one final task required of me, Cookie nurses. Goodnight; Hour Twenty-One.

(Three hours later, repeat) :-)

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Every once in awhile I feel overwhelmed by the list of things I'm not getting done. It's hard to shake the feeling of being constantly unproductive! Errands and phone calls and linear thinking are much harder now with Cookie walking (and chewing wood chips, standing atop tables, putting her head through fence slats, opening the baby-proof cabinet lock, gnawing toothpaste tubes, banging pots, not napping, and grabbing the eyeballs of other children). It's taken me a week, for example, to write this blog post (mostly while Cookie slept on my back). But then W reminds me that actually, I'm accomplishing everything. And after writing this post, I think I can agree.