Morning Messes and Beautiful Life

“The boys are both still asleep! You wanna get up and have morning coffee with me?”

My sleepy brain tries to wrap itself around the paradoxical words as I roll over in bed to view my half-dressed husband grinning tenderly at me.

“No. I just need more sleep. I was up a lot with the baby last night. Can you bring me some coffee?” I mumble and roll back over. Even in my half-asleep state I feel a twinge of guilt, knowing he is disappointed.

A few minutes later I am jolted back awake with a gasp to see my five-year-old beside the bed. He giggles at my startled reaction.

“You wanna cuddle with me?” again I mumble, looking at my nightstand for the coffee I asked for which is conspicuously missing.

My husband arrives, coffee in hand, bless him. He sets it on the bedside table and lifts the boy into the bed, where he stays only a few moments before he starts expressing discontent.

“You might wanna get up…”

“I might NOT wanna get up…” I reply.

“But you NEED to get up. Because I need to get up, and you need to be with me,” the perky boy responds, starting to be upset.

“Yeah, she might NEED to get up,” explains Daddy, “…but that doesn’t mean she WANTS to get up.” 

I half sit up and take a sip of liquid sanity as Ezra starts showing me an irritation on his hip where his clothes were rubbing him in the night. I try to explain to him that it will be okay as I shake off sleep and start to rouse.

_____

The sandwich is half-made as I reach into the fridge for the mustard. I get back to the counter to realize I’ve grabbed another slice of cheese instead. I look up to see my husband holding our baby who is squinting at the harsh kitchen light.

“You woke him up, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t stand it. I had to see him before I left,” Russ responds with a sheepish grin.

“Did your Daddy wake you up?” I coo at the baby in a pleasant sort of consternation, automatically recalculating his nap schedule accordingly in my tired mind.

He smiles at me from across the room.

Scoop. Scoop. Scoop. Three scoops of formula into an empty bottle I’ve just washed.

Coffee sipped. Dishes loaded. Eggs prepared. Counters sprayed down.

The hum of the morning lies underneath the disjointed conversation.

Me: “Ezra, put your bowl in the sink.”

Me: “Have you eaten yet?”

R: “Yes, I had some oatmeal. Ezra, you wanna help me do a job?”

E: “Can Batman help?”

_____

R: “I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m gonna miss the bus. No time for hugs.”

The next thing I know I’m sweeping yesterday’s cheerios, bread, and carrots off the kitchen floor with a sigh – all while pretending to not know my son who is pretending to be someone else who KNOWS Ezra who apparently ran away because he was scared I was going to kill him. The doorbell rings and I am assuming it’s my husband who missed his bus, but instead it’s Ezra, I mean “Jack,” who is letting Invisible Ezra in to play.

Medicine given. Cherry-pitting lesson demonstrated. Table wiped down. Egg pan washed and dried.

Now the dishwasher has added its music to the hum of our morning, and conversation has turned itself to more random commands.

“Why did you move the baby into the living room? Ezra, stop sawing the door with the butter knife. Don’t touch his eggs. You can’t touch eggs. Please go get your clothes on for summer camp. I’m going to take that knife away from you if you don’t go get dressed right now. Ezra, now! Go get your clothes on. Please don’t touch my mouse.”

etc., etc., etc.

E: “But what about the Inside Out gummies?”

Me: “Don’t worry about the Inside Out gummies! Go get your clothes on!”

I turn on Pharell’s Happy per Ezra’s request. Ezra, who is dressing himself by putting his play-shirt OVER his pajama shirt.

The baby starts to fuss, probably because he’s ready for a nap already due to getting awaken early. Last night’s carrots and this morning’s eggs messily grace his high chair. He yawns and fusses again.

This is morning. This is messy grace.

I remind myself how this is what I always wanted my life to look like. I had no dreams or aspirations much beyond raising babies.

But I didn’t know it would look like this. 

Wearisome. Exhausting. Mundane. Monotonous. Frustrating. Annoying. Overwhelming.

Wonderful. Exciting. Amazing. Beautiful.

More love and joy than one heart should be allowed to contain. 

How am I so blessed that this life is mine? How can it be that we made these beautiful boys out of our very being?

Motherhood. Family. Life.

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I ask Ezra to get my phone charger so I can grab pictures off of my phone. He returns from the bedroom with the phone charger, the baby monitor, and the extension cord. He asks to watch the Happy video, so I head to the living room to turn on Youtube on the TV so I can continue to finish this blog post. As I wait for it to come up, I refill my coffee cup with the little that remains in the coffee pot. I sigh because it isn’t much.

I dance to the music for a moment in my pajamas. Just because.

The baby smells poopy. The bread that Ezra gave him kept him occupied for a few moments but now he’s throwing it down and saying, “OW!” when it hits the floor that I swept just a half hour ago. It’s his newest game.

Happy is on repeat.

And I am happy. Beautiful mess and all.