My child can’t say my name. Well, he makes the sound “mama” but it doesn’t seem to mean anything to him. I sometimes wonder if that’s because he thinks my name is “Maid”, and it confuses him when I point to myself over and over making the sound mama, mama, mama, mama.

Your name is mama? I thought you were the maid.

What is this shoe doing under the dining room table?

This is where the work of parenting becomes drudgery for me. The diapers and bottle and whining are bad enough, but the repetitive nature of picking up the same tiny items over and over throughout the day numbs my brain and makes deep breathing necessary. My options are to try and pick up after him throughout the day, doing it over and over to keep up with the new messes made, or, to leave it be throughout the day, stepping carefully over his messes, cleaning it up at the end of the night in order to wake up to a clean apartment so he can mess it up all over again.

And your bath toys in the entryway? Or your pants in the kitchen?

The mess is usually much worse than this, but I had these sitting in my queue for another post I was going to write detailing why we call our child The Transporter. He does not play with anything, he just moves it from one location to the other. This is one reason why I recently threw out all but 5 of his toys, because I’m so sick of him pulling them out and doing nothing but dragging them around the house each day.

I’ll be celebrating the day I can say “If you don’t clean up your toys before you go to bed, I’m throwing these out while you are sleeping,” and know he understands what I mean. Unfortunately if I make that threat right now, he doesn’t even notice when things are gone! One of his other nicknames? 50 First Dates, because each morning he wakes up means a new day where he has absolutely no idea where he is, who I am, or what he did the day before.

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