You know how it is when the poop rolls out of the diaper onto the floor and the dog eats it and the baby screams for it back and the toddler slips in the residual drool (from the dog), which is when the phone rings and it's that woman who's been needing to get a hold of you and it sounds like she's starting to take it very personally that you aren't HOME when SHE calls, as though you're avoiding her on purpose. (Like you've got enough wits about you for that.)
And then, things quiet down and it's only the baby eating the cat food and your toddler flinging his fork across the table and something crunching underneath your shoe and the realization that there is no milk and no bread and no body else in charge. But you.
And then you pause for a moment, though the dinner is late and the phone rang again and this time they want to sell you something you really don't need, and you stop, right there with the knife in your hand, staring out the window and noticing the cobwebs in the screen that you ought to vacuum and the baby wants another helping of watermelon and the toddler wants to know "why" and you think, wow, this is so hard, and then you think, wow, I am so cool. Because so far that day you have done 179 things. And half of them pretty well. And you turn around and do it, though you don't do it perfectly, and you get to the end of the marathon when everyone's asleep but you and the stillness is filled with love. If love had a sound, that would be it.
It was that kind of day.