By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, my youngest daughter trudges to the kitchen in her pajamas. She grabs a small plastic bowl and walks it over to the table. She returns to the kitchen and opens a drawer for a spoon. She takes it to her bowl. Back to the kitchen, she grabs a cup. I watch her move the way I would a tennis volley: Cup. Table. Milk. Table. Cereal. Table. Back and forth and back and forth. But then, like an itch I must scratch—I blurt out,  “Honey, do you see how many trips you just took?” 

She looks at me and smiles. She’s heard these words a thousand times. 

“You can get the bowl and spoon and cup all at once!”  I spread my arms out wide, as if begging. “You could have gotten the granola and the milk together!” She nods, as if saying Yes, I know, Mom. I get it. I’m tired. 

But the next day, and the next—whether it be in the kitchen or cleaning up the living room or getting ready for school—one thousand little steps make up what could have been three. 

***

I’m late getting home and traffic is bad. I still have one more stop to make because a kid needs something (poster board, maybe?) for school tomorrow and I’m near a store we used to live by. I pass a light and expect to be able to turn left into the plaza, but the traffic pattern has changed. A concrete barrier forces me forward.

Almost instantly, I feel insanely frustrated—at the traffic, at the kids, at myself. A fire ignites in my belly. “Augh!” I scream into the empty car. I bang the heel of my hand onto the steering wheel. It’s the second time this week my precisely choreographed child-free hours have been foiled by an unpredictable mistake. A setback that feels personal, some proof of a deficiency in me. 

***

On Tuesday nights, I have three kids who have to be at three different practices at three different locations around town. The other days of the week are lighter, but I still drive around a lot. Every day feels like a repeat loop from here to there, and there to here. Over and over and over. 

***

Do you remember trying to get out of the house on time when the kids were little, when you made sure everything you might need was in your diaper bag? And ten steps before walking out the front door, the baby made that face—turning red and furrowing her brow—and you heard it before you felt it? And the smell arrived before you registered the wetness that had, somehow, defied physics and blown up from her back to the nape of her neck? 

And how you sighed a resigned breath and shook off your coat and laid the baby down; then went through not one, but two different outfits because she pooped again the minute she was re-dressed and lifted upright? And because you could not, in good conscience, leave without giving her a proper bath, late became the kindest of words to describe your eventual arrival?

Every day with a little one felt unpredictable. A fever, a missed nap, a tooth coming in could derail plans with ease. But oh! the monotony: diapers, feeding, laundry, playtime, bedtime, naptime. Over and over and over. 

When my kids were young, I held my life with open hands—believing one day, one day, I’d arrive. That time would stretch and become my own, that my life would morph into some manageable and predictable pattern, and that all the little repetitions would smooth out and streamline and my life with older kids would run like a well-oiled machine.

***

As often as possible, I meal plan. I order groceries online. But for some reason, for the second time in two days, I drive to the grocery store for more food. I buy bananas, oranges, bread, and pasta. Only later, back at home, do I realize we’re out of milk. 

How is this possible?

And when my son asks for cucumbers, I remember I forgot those too. 

***

Have you ever thought about how we talk about our days? 

Crushed it.  
In a nice routine.
Hitting our stride. 
Operating on all cylinders.
Max capacity.
Full throttle. 
Automated.
Dialed in.
GSD. 

Can you hear it? 

I have been a mother long enough to proudly stand up against unrealistic expectations. I try to build in margin and welcome downtime. I laud rest and adore silence. I want nothing more than to move through this world gently. 

And yet—how often does a switch flip in my brain, triggering me to feel like my sole purpose in life, or at least for part of the day, is to cross one thing after another off my endless list of to-do’s as fast as humanly possible, leaving absolutely no room for error?

***

I would never, not once, call myself Type A. 

I used to sit and nurse, like so many other moms, tracing velvet eyebrows and hairlines and fingertips. When my kids got older, I’d play on the floor with them for hours. Then, I’d pull my kids onto my lap and kiss their cheeks and read Brown Bear or Goodnight Gorilla three or four times in a row. In favor of strolling through the park—pointing out geese and turtles and fish—I’d leave dirty dishes in the sink and heaps of laundry in piles by the washer. Day after day, for years and years, my life was a slowly moving repeat version of itself.  

But even then, I was so proud of the speed of my diaper changes. How I could do them in the dark, in the middle of the night, barely even waking the baby. I’d pat myself on the back for my efficient system of washing pump parts, whispering, “Just let me do it,” when my husband offered to help each night. I stopped oohh-ing and ahh-ing over each new batch of little onesies, and instead folded them with automated precision. 

Through the years, I’ve bought books on how to do more with less, listened to podcasts on creating routines and systems. Why? Because there is always more. More groceries. More laundry. More practices to get to. More orthodontist appointments and bathrooms to clean and volunteer opportunities at school. There are library books to return and deadlines to meet and always some new form to fill out. Life’s demands are endless.  

I once read a book that asserted God gives us enough time for what he has for us each day. I don’t disagree, in theory. But the author wasn’t a mother. And I can’t help but wonder: What if there actually isn’t enough time for a mom to get everything done each day? 

***

In a world that values speed and organization, in a culture that loves sleek and sexy, when robots and economy have defined productivity for three generations, why wouldn’t efficiency seep into every aspect of my life?  

Why wouldn’t I start thinking motherhood, which is inefficient by nature, could be benchmarked by those same industrialized standards? 

I guess I just thought by the time I had teenagers, I would have figured out my life. The thousand little repetitions would simplify. I’d have meal planning down to a science, carpool schedules would align without effort, and I’d figured out some system for all the paper in my house.  

And while it’s true that I’m a pretty decent cook (no matter what’s in the fridge), and have subscription orders for everything from dishwasher tabs to trash bags, motherhood isn’t all that more predictable now than it was in those diaper years. 

There is nothing wrong with systems and planning. But I’m realizing how often I respond with an intensity of emotions when things don’t go as I expected, that far exceeds the issue. 

Why did I think motherhood would ever stop being full of surprises? That one day is never exactly like another, even when they get older. A kid forgets his viola. Another breaks his toe. After eating it every day for the last seven years, one of my kids no longer wants peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. The school nurse calls. An email arrives asking for canned goods tomorrow, and on Friday they need to wear orange. There will always be errands to run and items forgotten and last-minute changes of plans.

But this is how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? 

My youngest daughter may or may not walk into the kitchen each morning for the next ten years and grab what she needs for breakfast one thing at a time. And I may or may not ever have a day that runs as efficiently as I expected. But I am not a machine, and my life is not an assembly line. 

And motherhood will always be a thousand steps that never could have been three.

Sonya Spillmann lives in the DC area with her husband and four kids. She is a staff writer for Coffee + Crumbs and also writes on her blog. You can sign up for her newsletter and listen to her and Adrienne on the Exhale podcast every month.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.