Motherhood is sleep in eyes, and gummy smiles. It is the morning sun peeking through the blinds and kissing us, as I kiss his cheeks. It is juggling the refrigerator door, the yogurt, my juice - all with one hand. All with one hand because just one second apart would bring early morning tears. Motherhood is nursing in an empty living room whilst attempting to keep flailing baby fingers out of my breakfast. Mostly, motherhood is drinking cold tea - because I always end up forgetting it someplace else.
Motherhood is a desperate search for the nearest burp rag. And wearing the same pants three days in a row. It is cooing - and singing - and reaching around seats to calm a reluctant passenger. Eventually crawling over the seats to show him a non-stop loop of that video of him in the bath splashing. And sometimes that means that motherhood is quiet.
Motherhood is a bunch of tiny (seemingly) insignificant moments all patched together like a tacky scrapbook. It's not always pretty, but when you take a step back to look at it: it's complete. Motherhood is messy and confusing and beautiful all at once.