My skin smells of sunscreen and chlorinefrom a day at the pool, with a hint of the weed killer I've just finished spraying on the lawn.
My hands are dry from having washed them sixteenbajillion times, but I dip them into the water anyway and swipe the sponge against another plate. I glance around my kitchen and sigh, shifting my weight, and try not to think about the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I still have to make for our trip to the zoo tomorrow.
There is dog hair on the floor, even though I just vacuumed. Today.
There are toys on the floor, too, even though I've already sentenced them to their baskets at least twice before.
Phantom of the Opera is on cable, and I am reminded of New York and dinner at midnight and a life as far removed from the one I'm living as possible.
But I like home. I want to be home. I want to make the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and read to the little and watch the expressions on her face as she learns another new word and feel her little head on my shoulder at nap time and gague how quickly sleep will come from the heaviness of her eyelids. I even want to be here to vacuum the stupid floor (again).
I pause to hear the tap - tap - tapping of my fingers against the keyboard, because this moment will soon be gone and my tired momma's brain will fail to remember so many things; little details that seem too divine to forget. I want a penseive (yes, that's a Harry Potter reference. Deal.) to extract every little nuance so that when they are gone I can come back and live in these anointed, ordinary moments.
And when it's done, I will put the clothes in the laundry and finish those dishes and know that I'll turn around in a few hours and do it all again. It's a gift; an art to live the same actions within a new day.
And it is by far the best job I've ever had.
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