6:20 am. I hear the baby gate squeak open. A few seconds later, the dog’s tail starts to smack, slowly, against the comforter. How she managed to sneak all 50 lbs of her lumbering body onto the bed last night without my husband or I noticing is beyond me. Socked feet shuffle quietly into the room. The dog stretches her way to the edge of the bed. My husband rolls over and makes a pretend sleep sound, as if there’s any way that he didn’t hear the squeak, or feel the dog, or sense the quiet presence of the child in our room. It’s my turn to get up today. 

7:30 am. The kitchen smells of coffee grounds and butter. The first two pieces of what will eventually become French toast sit soggily in a bowl of eggs, and the last of the milk. My daughter is on the floor, sob-screaming, because she decided, once she saw me throw the empty carton away, that she had really wanted cereal and milk, not French toast. French toast is horrible. Especially when I make it with the last of the milk. I’m not eating gluten these days. Or dairy. So perhaps the dog will eat this French toast. 

8 am. Everyone is covered in syrup and blueberry stains. Turns out the French toast was O.K. We have thirty minutes to get cleaned up and ready for school. My son hears the sound of a fresh diaper being pulled from the drawer and bolts. But dad is awake, and caffeinated, and catches him by the waist, wrestling him to the ground. I brush my daughter’s hair. The new conditioner has done the trick and she screams for less than a minute. One deft “down ponytail” with purple hair tie later, she’s tear-less and ready to play Magnatiles with a freshly-diapered brother. 

8:35 am. We are in the car on time. The dog appears to have stolen one shoe during the night and/or early morning, but it belongs to dad, so the kids and I are able to leave the house on-time, and well-soled. We’ve brought Anna and Elsa with us, as my daughter expressed an uncharacteristic desire to share them with her friends this morning. In the car, she clings to the dolls and asks for her favorite song–the one by 5 girls. She means “Stop,” by the Spice Girls. I willingly oblige, and we all sing along.  

9:00 am. We drop off at in-home preschool with only two requests for “huggie and kissie.” Little brother plays with another little brother while the grownups talk about sleep schedules, and cutting in line for Covid vaccines. The conversation lightens me a little. 

9:30 am. Little brother and I arrive at Stroller Strides. On time for the first time this week.  

10:30 am. Stroller strides was a success. I was able to engage in light exercise, and good conversation, mostly related to babies, and toddlers, but some not. My son got to play at the park afterwards. He even kept his mask on, though he managed to stick his fingers in his nose, mouth, and eyes. He doesn’t know how to play with the other kids, and I’m worried he’s been in quarantine too long. Or maybe he’s just thoughtful like his dad. He stands there, watching two girls push each other on the play structure. I wonder if he’s judging them, or wishing he was brave enough to push someone too. 

11:45 am. We’ve picked sister up at preschool, and I have engaged in another half-hour of adult conversation. I was even reminded of my son’s birthday party this weekend. I will have to bake a cake for that this week. 

12:30 pm. It’s time for lunch. There’s another meltdown from my daughter, because it appears that we left Anna and Elsa at preschool. I make a loose promise to pick them up this afternoon, even though I know we won’t see them again until we go back on Thursday. Things escalate when we are not having pizza for lunch. Eventually, brother sits down to eat, and he seems to be enjoying the peanut butter and jelly, so my daughter joins him, hiccupping loudly. We’ve had more tantrums at mealtimes lately. I wonder if it’s because she’s noticed how big my belly is, and that I can’t sit in the tiny chair at lunch anymore. 

1:30 pm. I’ve committed to sleep training my son again. He only naps in the stroller, and screams before bedtime at night. I’ve given in too much, and I’m determined to set more firm boundaries. He will sleep in his bed, or, at least, stay in his room, for a full hour today. 

2:00 pm. I’ve given up. No one is napping, but the kids are busy playing dress-up in my daughter’s room, so I do the dishes instead. 

2:30 pm. We have a playroom upstairs that we don’t use as often as we should. It’s far from the kitchen, and the laundry, so I can’t sneak in any chores while the kids play. The dog also likes to eat the carpet up there. But today, the kids want to have a tea party, so we crate the dog and head upstairs. The guest bedroom, now dad’s office, is off the playroom. He turns his swivel chair to the door and sighs as we come into view. He allows a few squeals, hugs and spins in the swivel chair before he turns on his noise-cancelling headphones, and closes and locks the door.

4:10 pm. Playroom time was the most relaxing part of my day. I commit to doing it more often. I got to lay on the couch for 10 minutes while the kids covered me in stickers. We read a few books–and not just the Frozen ones, but the good ones that I picked out. There was one about sharks, and Julian at the Wedding. My daughter likes Julian because there’s a flower girl in it. She will be a flower girl at her uncle’s wedding in the fall, and she likes to practice with pieces of toilet paper that she hides in her tiger purse. 

4:30 pm. The babysitter arrives. Tuesday is date night, and the only night of the week that we have help. The babysitter comes at 4:30, so that I can schedule skype-dates with east-coast friends, or just lay in bed for an hour before my husband is done with work. It’s a truly precious time. Even though I can hear Magnatiles crashing to the cement floor just outside my bedroom door. 

7:30 pm. Date night was a huge success, but we always come home early these days, because nothing is open, and both kids have a hard time going to sleep without us. My daughter picks out three books, and the only pair of pajamas that are too small for her. My son is reading with dad in his room. After books, we switch. 10 minutes later, I hear a door close, and know that my daughter is asleep. 

8 pm. My sleep-sack-clad son sits up on his bed, surrounded by blocks, trucks and stuffed animals. He wants water, but not the plastic cup that sits on the floor by his bed. He wants the yellow cup, with the orange straw, and he wants to fill it up himself. We trek to the kitchen. He fills the cup at the sink and gets his sleeve wet. We have to change shirts now, and begin the song, backrub, night-light on, sip of water process all over again. 

8:30 pm. My son is finally asleep. He’s on the floor by his closet, but still on the rug, so I won’t move him back to bed for another hour. I want to read, or write, or bake something we can eat for breakfast tomorrow, but my body won’t seem to move off the couch. I drink some ice water, and do a kick count. I feel seven in twenty minutes and call it. My husband is playing the piano in the other room. I look over at the dog, who is licking her belly on the couch next to me. “He’s so motivated,” I say to her. She looks at me, and then whines for dinner. I haven’t fed her since breakfast. At least, I think I fed her breakfast.