Wet

Pee. Mustard colored poops. Spit-up. Breast milk. Leaky eyes.

These first few weeks of mothering my second newborn have been wet. Plenty wet. Breast milk splashes on faces and fingers and floors. Spit-up on shoulders and sheets. Burps and diaper blow outs galore. We are always covered in wet spots of some sort, me and my youngest boy.

Drool. Diaper rashes. Tantrums. Sloppy kisses.

The 2-year old is wet too. Molars pushing through, emotions bursting out. Uncontainable. All that he is, all that he is becoming, all that he is trying to figure out - it spills out and we are left to sort through it and try to put him back together again. He amazes me and worries me and makes me laugh and makes me cry and tires me out.

Washing machines. Dishwashers. Brooms and mops.

4 people living in one house 24/7 leads to a lot more dirty everything. I forgot how much laundry there would be; a new receiving blanket 500 times a day. Grass stained jeans to scrub. Crumbs to sweep up and toys to pick up and mouths to feed. The to do list never ends.

Night sweats. Hormones. Tears.

I'm so easily set off, I'm hormonal. I wake up, shivering and sweaty, to a crying baby in the middle of dark nights. He cries, I cry. I forgot how many tears of sorrow and frustration and sadness there would be. I forgot how much work figuring it all out would take. And joy. I forgot what crying for joy feels like. Crying for the pure love of another soul. Overtaken. Love spilling out. I forgot about this, until, through all this wetness, they reminded me.