There's a magic trick performed daily by every toddler ever born, and it goes something like this: you can make an entire day...poof!...disappear. Karen and I are laid out in the living room right now, looking rougher than twelve miles of unpaved highway, but if you asked us what we accomplished today, we would have to admit, "Nothing." But that "Nothing" includes wrestling young'uns in and out of diapers, keeping up with tiny shoes, breaking up tiny fights, wiping up big messes, kissing imaginary injuries, listening to an ungodly amount of whining, and demanding that you QUIT DIPPING YOUR CRACKERS IN SAND AND YOUR COOKIES IN THE RIVER FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY. Our bodies are exhausted from the effort of keeping you alive for another day, and our brains are fatigued by our attempts to have conversations with small people who only pronounce the vowels or consonants in their words - never both. It's like having an unpaid job as one of those WWII Navajo code breakers.
For example, a short trip to the river requires an hour of making sure everyone had a nap, that we have enough snacks, that we have the right snacks, that everyone is wearing two shoes, that everyone has on sunscreen, that the young'uns have a towel and something dry to change into, that we have the basket of water toys and everyone's favorite floaties...blah blah blah, put me to bed.
This is a little of what today's "Nothing" looked like:
Today's nothing sure was something.
Love,
Mom
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