September 22nd.

I sit on the grey pergo flooring, hints of brown peeking through. From far away, it appears as real wood, but I’m happy that it isn’t, because I want mopping to be an easy chore. I’m seated in front of Rowan’s kitchen. Bits of metal and wood fused to mirror a real-life oven and stovetop, complete with plastic ice cubs that come out of the refrigerator. We are working on cooking the sliceable, wooden and velcro beets (or radishes?), for the hundredth time.

I remind myself that intentional, focused time is important for her emotional well-being. For her perception of my presence as a mother who cared in her life. It is why I chose to stay home a year and a half ago. To fill the gaps I felt I had in my mothering of my first-born at a young age.

But, this beet game is tedious. Living on the edges of my nerves, like a thread of lightening. I am tired of make believe, and endless redirection. I am tired of Frozen, and Shrek, and puzzles, and supervised outside time. There are moments when this feels deeply satisfying: the look of new learning, small hands with dirty fingernails clasping my cheeks, laughter that is a crescendo of deep joy. There are moments when I deeply want to call-in sick to my own life, and go back to work. To hear another adult voice, talking to me about more than how the kids are, or what chores need to be completed. To stretch my mind beyond the task of: “who are they going to be someday? Am I doing right by them? Who will I be someday?”

I shake myself out of my reverie, and return to our miniature pots. I chose this, and it was something I yearned for. I’m furious at my own human brain, for not having the presence of mind to sit in eternal gratitude for what are ostensibly, maybe objectively, beautiful blessings. Then, I’m reminding myself that my own humanity means I am a complex being. That I can have multiple competing wants in the expanse of a single moment. That I can feel gratitude and boredom, and not have that be a measure of my worth as a mother, and human.

I get creative, and bring out a muffin tin. Suddenly, momentarily, this experience has expanded again. My daughter’s giggles rise to meet me as I shout “oh, that’s hot!” when she hands me the tin without an oven mitt. For now, this is where I want to be. For now, once again, I am grateful to be here. May I continue to learn about the depth of presence from my screeching, willful two year old.