Slap-pat-slap-pat-slap bare little toddler feet against a tile floor while I’m washing dishes. She twirls in circles, runs and stops, then weeble-walks. Silence. A giggle. I look down. A little face peeks up, upside-down, from the floor. She’s crawled between my feet. She darts off again and makes laps through the dining room, living room, hallway and back to the kitchen completing the circuit of the first floor. Slap-pat-slap little feet run as fast as they can go. Faster, faster, to the point of nearly losing her balance. She joyfully throws herself into my legs, catching herself on my sweatpants and hanging there by her hands swaying and giddy with the power of movement. I laugh. As a child I remember reading books where young children hid in the skirts of their mothers long ago, and seeing scenes in movies where they did just that. I may not be wearing a skirt, but some things are so intrinsically a part of motherhood no matter the time or place. Dishes done I reach down to pick her up. Na-nah-nah-nah! She scolds, little arms wrapping their way around my knees instead. She walks me like a puppet across the floor yelling “boom!” With every step we take. She leaves me off at the doorway, meaningfully shaking her hands “all done”, face dead-serious. “All done.” I echo with my words. Her face cracks into the biggest grin and she’s off again. Slap-pat-slap-pat, arms swaying with her run, little tongue hanging out and toddler hair all mussed up.

Motherhood, edited down into a vignette, would be nothing but these moments and a soundtrack to carry the mood.

Unedited. Last night I got no sleep. Eighteen month growth spurt. My daughter clung to me like an angry badger. Restless legs kicked me all night long. Chompy nursing. Fingers dug into my skin and twisted and pulled. Any attempt to move her away? Angry yelling. A two foot strip on my side of the bed where I can sleep with her clinging to my side. She won’t sleep under the blankets so she slept on top, pulling it off of me. But when she was asleep I wouldn’t risk moving her to steal back the blanket to cover myself, or to sneak-creep from the room to the linen closet to get myself another blanket. She needs that sleep even more than I do.

House messy because she needs to be attached to me but isn’t happy in the wrap or Mei Tai unless she’s trying to nap. And the three year old is going through a phase where he only wants to eat jam. With a spoon. And nothing else. Laundry to do. But at least now the dishes are clean.

And this? This will pass. This is just growing pains. Two weeks ago things were lovely. Two weeks from now they’ll be lovely again. She’ll move back to her own space in her sidecarred crib. She’ll accept daddy bouncing her at night again. She’ll sleep for those longer stretches and she’ll roll back over and soothe herself successfully even though she tries now and fails. This? It’s just a growth spurt. A rough time. Growing pains.

Real life is not the movies. This stuff? It’s motherhood. Unedited for length.