I'm currently lying on my kitchen floor. I got down here a half hour ago, to sit and chat with my little jolly-jumping goblin at his level and at some point I dragged my laptop from the counter, flipped over onto my belly and continued watching my YouTube show. Liam is behind me, bouncing between / on my calves, growling merrily to himself. Another load of laundry is in the dryer, the dishwasher is half loaded, and I'm just about ready for another run of Tylenol and a time-out with a heating pad against my back while the baby (hopefully) sleeps.
My kitchen floor, from this view, is disgusting. I'm glad Liam can't crawl yet.
But the reality is that my floor will occasionally look at least this bad long after we have a walker on our hands. The list of things that need to be addressed in order to maintain a clean house... it's long, guys. And most of the list is not fun. I am so grateful for visits from my mother and mother-in-law because I know that they will not only hold my baby and change some diapers, but they are also likely to give my windows / stovetop a scrub before they go home. Last week I caught one friend wiping sludge off the front of my counters.
This was not embarrassing -- it was love. These quiet acts of service fill up my heart as a mom. I love our boisterous little energy-sucking fart monster, and also I don't want to be the only one who loves him. He's almost eight months old. We have started a hope-you-go-away-to-college fund. Probably in seventeen years I'll be regretting the away part of that plan, but for now, just sometimes, I need that future, imaginary empty nest as a goal to focus on while we are still working on getting in enough tummy time:
Raise our son to be an independent, kind and thoughtful adult human.
Who will occasionally come home and sweep our floors.