Sometimes the days don’t feel that long. Sometimes they feel like magic.

Run. Run. Keep going. Train insane or stay the same. Wipe the sweat, breathe in, breathe out. Run.

Legs aching & I drive home in the dark, the last bit of quiet.

Front door squeaks. I juggle a coffee mug & coat & laptop bag & “MOMMA!” as he comes barreling to me.

THUMP in a heap & I’m wrapped up in him, but only for a moment because “Momma, do you want to play trucks?”

Chop, chop, chop. Mince, pour, tear. My back aches over a labor of love that fits in a tin pan.

Press the buttons, open the door, slide it in.

60 minutes until the warning call.

Load of laundry to the dryer. Load of laundry to the washer. Reach up, measure soap, close door.

Fork to plate, lips to cup, all after a three-person prayer of thanks. The one we all learn in nursery school & now say again.

Wipe the crumbs, load the dishes, store the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch.

Bath water running & I stir the hot & cold water together with a toy duck, knees pressing against the hard tile & my sleeves dipping into bubbles.

“Up, up, away!” I say as I lift his shirt & into the laundry basket it goes.

Dip, pour, dip, pour. Where is that damn shampoo? Dip, pour, dip, pour.

This is the knee-aching, back-bending rhythm of motherhood & I am in love with it.