Too much

Tonight I attended my online MBA class with Margaret nearby. We begin at the table, listening while decorating birthday cards. “Nana’s turning 60 and Aunt Libby’s turning 1859!” Later we listen from the bathroom (on mute and without video) while Margaret takes a bath. I look around at the bath toys, the floor wet from her splashing, the discarded clothing next to my computer and notebook.

Instead of feeling like the hard-working career mom I often aspire to be, it suddenly feels like too much. Too much staring at a computer screen after a day of the same for work. Too much juggling and scheduling and shuttling kids around town.

At dinner Mike and I are all business while we eat. “Gray’s medical forms are due at school or else he may be unenrolled,” I say. “Can Thomas stay with us next week?” He asks in between bites.

Meanwhile Margaret is singing at the top of her lungs while picking at her food, and Gray is on his third helping of chicken. “Who made this? It’s really good!” Mike is fine, “really, I’m fine,” but he’s rubbing his face like he does when he’s overwhelmed, a signature move I’ve seen over and over during the last ten years. I’ve scarfed down my dinner without even tasting because we’re nearing cub scouts and grad school and there is no time left for eating or connecting. No time to say please when asking for more, no time to pause to give thanks.

At bath time while my professor talks on, unaware of the important business of cup stacking and bubble blowing happening nearby, I lean near Margaret and stage whisper, “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

She giggles and says, “That’s because it’s in Spanish!!”

It’s not in Spanish, it’s in another foreign language: Six Sigma.

Eventually I leave the class, and mentally add watching the meeting recording to a to-do list that’s already bursting at the seams.

But there’s no time to fret, because we’re off to the races again with pull-ups and jammies, dressing every single baby doll we own and setting them up for their nightly movie. “Don’t worry Mom, it’s not scary.”

The baby dolls subdued and Margaret content, I race around the house picking up toys and getting the laundry out of the dryer. As I go about my chores, I wonder how I’m going to manage a donor interview and parent teacher conference tomorrow with my son very much at home and no school to occupy him. Gray is many things but most of all he is always very present.

The kids are in bed now and Mike is folding laundry nearby. Somehow laundry keeps coming, every refilling basket demanding action. There’s always the fear of not having the right pants for Margaret, the ones that won’t cause a tantrum and outfit change in the garage before getting in the car for daycare. Hypothetically speaking, of course. And we must not forget the rescue mission we’ve been assigned tonight: recovering two Pokémon cards left in the pocket of “the pants I wore to gymnastics! You know which ones!” I don’t. I truly don’t. Then again, I rarely know what day it is anymore.

Another day is done, more work, more hustle, more, more, more.

The days are long, the years are short, they say. Cherish this time, you’ll miss it when it’s gone. I know it’s true. And I know I will.

I try to look into Margaret’s eyes, memorize Gray’s sly smile, role my eyes with fake annoyance at Mike’s silly but charming jokes. I try to decide when it’s time to work and when it’s time to shut down for the night. It’s the latter tonight, I think.

Before going to bed I check in on each kid, fluffing blankets and fretting, watching them breathe. I put my hand on Gray’s forehead, wondering if he’s too hot or too cold or just right. I giggle at the way Margaret sleeps with her arms up and flailed to the side like she’s on the best roller coaster ride of her little life.

As I ease into bed, too tired to think about school forms and emails unanswered, the never ending laundry piles and the demands of the day, I offer the meekest of prayers: Please let it all be worth something. Please let my children know they are loved.

Please, and thank you.