Not “How does she ever do it?” But “How did I ever do it?”

It was one of those SuperMom, or rather Super Granny Nanny mornings. The stars aligned and for a short while both Adella and Marshall were asleep. I had managed not only to tie together two bundles of cardboard and get them to the curb before the sanitation crew arrived, but also to rewash that lingering load of laundry and get it into the dryer. The dishwasher was humming, the kitchen counters and sink were clean and as Adella continued sleeping, Marshall “helped” me make the bed, that is to say, he allowed me to make the bed. I was just about to start vacuuming when Adella, in her pink elephant sleeper, announced herself.

She rubbed her hands up and down her legs. “Grandma, I need pockets for my cell phone.” I laughed. Only after I dressed her in her jeans with pockets did I discover she was serious. She slipped Uncle Daniel’s retired cell phone into the front pocket of her jeans.

After a few phone calls with Justine, who had a dead battery, another load or two of laundry, and some play time downstairs where Adella determined that she wanted to read the bright yellow and black Cliff Notes for Huckleberry Finn—I gave her an even more abbreviated version of the plot, boy and man on a boat raft in a river, to which she replies "That is an adventure"—it was time for lunch.

The day was going a little too well. But I tempted fate. I chose a mixed vegetable puree and a cute plastic baby spoon  that looks more like a miniature shovel than a spoon that has taken up residence in my silverware drawer. Marshall ate with relish and without too much mess, until in my haste I flipped back the spoon a little too quickly. Orange muck on my white t-shirt. And then it happened again. Me, not Marshall, making the mess, which now reached my “Mom sweatshirt.”  I gave Marshall an ample supply of Cheerios and retreated to the sink.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured myself. “You just need a cup of milk to give yourself some energy until you have time to eat your own lunch.” I poured a cup of milk.

“I need a cup of milk, too,” Adella announced.

I pulled out a cup. “Not that cup. My sippy cup,” she said.

I reached over her to get the sippy cup on the top shelf of the cupboard, and then it happened. I knocked over the entire cup of milk, all over the floor, all over Adella.

“My stool,” she cried. “My stool is dirty.”

“It’s o.k., we can clean it up,” I said and she promptly got on the floor with the paper towels and energetically tried to wipe it all up.

There was no use crying over spilt milk. But I did grumble a bit. In that brief moment, the order of the day had erupted into chaos. A chaos that then seemed to reign until their father came to pick them up.

After I shut the door on my departing cherubs and before I jumped into the shower to rush to get ready for work, I sat down for a minute. Just one. 

I contemplated the day. I am always one cupful away from disaster.  Just one.   

I am only granny nanny two days a week. Just two. As I contemplate the chaos of two days a week, I am mystified. The question is not “How does my daughter do it?” But “How did I ever do it?”  

  

Thankful somehow all three children made it to adulthood.