My cup has a question mark on it. It’s the whole day written on ceramic, a hieroglyphic metaphor for Monday.
One baby is at school and the other has the flu and yet another is eating crackers with some brand new molars, hard won through sleepless nights and a half eaten crib.
With laundry to wash and with Mr. Rogers watched, sometimes a mother wonders if it’s worth her time to shower. Or get dressed.
I’ve decided it’s probably not, since my husband will face the preschool pick up line at lunch. I can wear pajamas in private until nap time. I had planned on taking it easy, wiping sweaty brows and pouring juice with the generosity that comes with a germ infestation. Then I read a few online blogs where some ladies have six or seven children and they have taken it upon themselves to detail the art of planter box flower arrangements. They have kids coming out of their ears and their houses look perfect. Some of them are CANNING vegetable relish.
My planter box is an old wine barrel and do you know what’s in it? Leaves and snapdragon carcasses from Springtime.
At first I was annoyed with these women of excellence. How dare they be so excellent when I am so exhausted?
Slowly though, the feeling that pretty planter boxes might be fun and nice crept up into my tired toes. It’s almost to my heart now, I can feel it.
I don’t think it’s rational for me to load up the poor little nauseous children to go to the garden center, but I don’t see a problem with a little indoor sprucing. Perhaps I will make a bed? Or maybe even two beds?
The question my coffee cup is asking me is, “How will you spend your pajama clad day?”
And I think I’ll be telling it, “Making things homey and clean.”
Not because I have to, but because it feels nice. It’s the mother way of loving.