Before I ever had a child of my own, my older sister Page told me, "Motherhood is like Groundhog Day" — referring to the Bill Murray movie, where he lives the same inane day over and over again.
And I thought, yikes.
Then today I woke up.
(Like the day before.)
And I could hear The Chief singing, "Mama! Baa baa!" from the nursery.
(Like the day before.)
So I pulled my heavy soul from bed and went to the boy. Opened the curtains. Welcomed the sunshine with "Oh What A Beautiful Morning!" Kissed his head. Bowed over to fish him out of the crib. Yanked him over the crib walls and put him on the floor for a swift change of diaper. Waved good-bye to Dad.
(All like the day before.)
Then it was down to the kitchen for a bowl full of cereal (we share one bowl, one spoon) and a refill of his sippy cup. I yawned seven or so times as I sat on the stairs using my spoon to bulldoze wheaty goodness into my son's mouth. Meanwhile, he took a serious inventory of all the pots and pans in the low kitchen cupboard.
(7 pots, 2 pans — just like yesterday.)
When breakfast was over, we commenced our earnest daily cleaning regimen, starting with the dishes. As I rinsed and loaded, The Chief resumed his post as Water Control while crouched in the sink.
(Naked, just like yesterday.)
Then it was off to dress the boy and myself and finish off the vacuuming, dusting and rotation of lazy laundry. I was interrupted by The Chief's demands for "bouy" in a bowl (that would be Pirate's Booty in a bowl) and "choo choo" (that means Thomas, you know, the Tank Engine) downstairs in the den.
(Thomas was spectacular, just like he was yesterday.)
And it seemed like we'd been at it all morning, but the clock hadn't moved past 9:42 in the last two hours. Which meant we weren't any closer to naptime.
(9:42 all morning yesterday too.)
Then it was time for cheese quesadillas with beans and a break for my feet. A couple stories in the nursery. A little boy's protest he doesn't want a nap. An insistence from me THAT INDEED HE DOES. At last, the golden hour of naptime.
(Not long enough, just like yesterday.)
A couple hours later we were back to making and destroying train tracks on the coffee table, eating more bouy, me sneaking a peek at my e-mail, The Chief finding me on my laptop and insisting we watch YouTube videos about cats (oh the fun), folding the warm laundry, hoping Dad will call soon on his way home, changing another couple diapers, filling another couple sippy cups, playing smash crash with the wrecking crane and the fire truck — Why hasn't Dad called yet? — explaining that Mao is out of batteries, trying to explain again, sweeping up the buoy making crunching noises on the bottom of my feet from the kitchen floor, dreaming about a really dreamy dinner. Is Dad home yet?
(Dad comes home, like he did yesterday.)
We ate. We played a couple hide-n-seek variables. We went downstairs and had our nightly family dance party. We put the boy in the tub. We cleaned up dinner. We read scriptures. We said a prayer and put The Chief back in the same crib where we started from. We crashed on our bed together and fell asleep. (Only to wake up 15 minutes later remembering there is still a young night with tasks enough to fill it.) Dad went downstairs to work and I blogged on the laptop in bed with a beverage. Then sometime late in the night we met up again, turned off our consciousness and fell directly to sleep.
(Sounds familiar? Think yesterday.)
Then in the morning we will all wake up and do it again. And again. And again. And again I suppose, until we decide we don't want to do it anymore.
So Page was right. It is Groundhog Day. But what she forgot to mention is that it also includes buoy breaks and YouTube cats — two things you can never get enough of, no matter how many times you repeat.
(I wouldn't change it for the world.)
C. Jane Kendrick writes for blog.cjanerun.com. She lives in Provo with her husband and two children.