Sometimes this is motherhood: finding the spiritual in the ordinary, the sublime in the mundane. It’s the dance your son does to Coltrane and the smile just like his daddy’s when he teases you. It’s the prose that lingers in his laughter, the prayer that rises from his babbling.
And sometimes it’s this: he refuses to eat anything but bananas and bread, to let you dress him without a temper tantrum, to let you write (or work or dry your hair), and the load whirling in the laundry right now contains a pair of jeans splattered with pureed raspberry and yogurt and another pair of jeans covered with your son’s vomit, and the pink creeps in the grout because during those last few minutes of his nap after finishing your work project you can either take a shower or clean it, and the measuring spoons and cups litter the kitchen (and the hallway and living room), and the toys create an obstacle course that makes Home Alone look like Mary Poppins–and snap–took care of everything. It’s the broken plate in the sink and the broken chess piece from Africa on the piano, and you’re struggling to live in complete thoughts, forget poetically.
Then it comes to the end of the night, and you rock and rock and rock until he falls asleep, these nights fewer and fewer when he sleeps still in your arms, and you want to hold him all night long and listen to his breathing and feel his warmth against you, and none of those things matter, or at least they matter less, because despite how hard this day was and how tired you are and how can you be out of chocolate?, there is love.