Mumma

mumma.

it is who i am.

most days it feels like it is only and all of who i am.

all other parts, fragments, glimmers of any other who i might have been

obliterated by the mumma.

mumma, mumma, mumma.

it's the sippy cup that needs refilled.

it's the booboo that needs kissed.

the face that needs wiped.

the butt that needs wiped.

the counter that needs wiped.

so much wiping.

it's the meals that need made.

the meals that require begging, bribing, negotiating, please just eat what i made this one time.

it's the timeout, the separating of siblings, the dearLordpleasehelpmefindpatience whispered through clenched teeth

it's the hold you, hold you, hold you.

it's the worry, the running to do list, the flash of panic of why is it so quiet

it's finding my daughter with aquaphor on every inch of her body

it's finding my son stuck on the top shelf of the pantry

it's constantly asking to no one in particular, how?  why?

it's guilt for choosing a shower over alone time with the big one

it's guilt for letting the little one cry herself to nap

it's the up, down, up, down, up, down at the dinner table 

it's do you have to go potty asked for the 12th time today and it's only 10am

it's the early morning rise just to have a small window of silence

it's the worry running through my head at night, are they covered up and warm? what are we doing for lunch tomorrow? remember to call the doctor to schedule the well check-up

it's looking around the house and wondering aloud if it will ever be clean:  the ever fingerprinted mirrors, the crumbs in couch cushions, the single socks with no matches

where do all the socks go?

mumma.

it is who i am.

and sometimes it feels like it is all i've ever wanted to be.

all other parts, fragments, glimmers of any other who i ever was

magnified and glistening by the mumma.

mumma, mumma, mumma.

the kisses, the snugs, the full child body weight around my neck.

the glimpses that belong only to me to test the waters on an unfamiliar choice.

the i love you.

i love you, mumma.  i love you.

it's finding the moon in the night sky and telling it goodnight

it's puzzles of farm scenes completed followed by high fives and ripping it up joyfully

it's smiling in recognition as my child feebly tries to sing the song from Wallykazam in the car

it's hearing the words otherwise, actually, and solution being used correctly out of the mouth of a preschooler 

it's the hold you, hold you, hold you.

it's feeling pride and tearful joy at the sight of a legible letter in shaky 3year old print on a piece of construction paper

it's the burst of laughter that bubbles up from a place of slapstick comedy you almost forgot existed when your 2year old discovers that she should swallow a mouth full of water before trying to talk

it's finding your children huddled up under a blanket together reading books peacefully

the thanks mum! you're the best ever! for offering the smallest of gifts: a new snack, a once misplaced toy, a chance to lick the cookie spoon.

it's the blissful peace that comes with watching a child fall asleep in your arms.

the fulfilling sense of triumph when both kids ask for seconds at dinnertime

it's looking around the house and realizing that there would be no mistaking it for one that children did not occupy; the crafts on the fridge, the legos under the couch, the snacks in the cupboard.

our home screams:  children live here!  This is a home lived in.

very very deeply lived in.

mumma.

it's a thick layer of frosting covering the entire cake; the part that children scrape off and devour hungrily only to leave the crumbling naked cake dejected on the plate.

it slips down into hairline fractures

it is in every dark corner, out every window

i find it in hidden in unexpected places

it is the scale on which all of life is weighed and balanced

it is not the fork in the road, rather the shoes that i wear

shoes that i trust and have worn in - so much so that i forget they aren't actually just part of my feet

mumma.