How many times have I warmed up this cup of coffee? I'm sitting here on a very cold Ontario morning, trying to finish my dark roast before I have to throw it in the microwave once again. My daughter just finished her breakfast and is now playfully eating some puffs while talking to herself in her little sing-song voice. I love listening to her babbles. I imagine what she might be saying.
There is a stack of fabric on top of one of my sewing bins sitting on the floor in front of me still waiting to be made into a fabulous dress for my daughter's upcoming birthday. I look at it with longing. And loathing. Mostly longing. Longing to be superwoman, supermom, superhousewife, super...something. Longing to feel productive. It's not that I'm laz; it's not that I don't do anything during the day, it's just that the things I do don't stay done. Let me elaborate: I did dishes yesterday. Times three. What do you think my kitchen looks like this morning after breakfast? I cleaned up all the random toys littering the living room last night. Guess what? You got it, they're all out again. I'll have to sweep the floor twice today, even though I swept yesterday, and I'll have to sweep it again tomorrow. Yet even amidst the endless, repetative string of mommy chores which leave me feeling slightly annoyed, moderately unproductive and very tired, my little girl looks at me with big blue eyes full of wonder and throws her arms around my neck. Suddenly I am reminded that it is all worth it. More than worth it. My husband brings me coffee at the end of his shift. Even though I'll have to warm it up five more times, I remember why it is I do what I do: the same things I learned to appreciate when I was child myself. Love. Family. Hans Christian Andersen was right. Life is the most wonderful fairytale of all.
