Ode to Groundhog Day

Before I ever had a child of my own, my older sister Page told me, "Motherhood is like Groundhog Day" — referring to the Bill Murray movie, where he lives the same inane day over and over again.

And I thought, yikes.

Then today I woke up.

(Like the day before.)

And I could hear The Chief singing, "Mama! Baa baa!" from the nursery.

(Like the day before.)

So I pulled my heavy soul from bed and went to the boy. Opened the curtains. Welcomed the sunshine with "Oh What A Beautiful Morning!" Kissed his head. Bowed over to fish him out of the crib. Yanked him over the crib walls and put him on the floor for a swift change of diaper. Waved good-bye to Dad.

(All like the day before.)

Then it was down to the kitchen for a bowl full of cereal (we share one bowl, one spoon) and a refill of his sippy cup. I yawned seven or so times as I sat on the stairs using my spoon to bulldoze wheaty goodness into my son's mouth. Meanwhile, he took a serious inventory of all the pots and pans in the low kitchen cupboard.

(7 pots, 2 pans — just like yesterday.)

When breakfast was over, we commenced our earnest daily cleaning regimen, starting with the dishes. As I rinsed and loaded, The Chief resumed his post as Water Control while crouched in the sink.

(Naked, just like yesterday.)

Then it was off to dress the boy and myself and finish off the vacuuming, dusting and rotation of lazy laundry. I was interrupted by The Chief's demands for "bouy" in a bowl (that would be Pirate's Booty in a bowl) and "choo choo" (that means Thomas, you know, the Tank Engine) downstairs in the den.

(Thomas was spectacular, just like he was yesterday.)

And it seemed like we'd been at it all morning, but the clock hadn't moved past 9:42 in the last two hours. Which meant we weren't any closer to naptime.

(9:42 all morning yesterday too.)

Then it was time for cheese quesadillas with beans and a break for my feet. A couple stories in the nursery. A little boy's protest he doesn't want a nap. An insistence from me THAT INDEED HE DOES. At last, the golden hour of naptime.

(Not long enough, just like yesterday.)