My Name is Mud

It's 8:30 in the morning and already we have engaged "Operation Do-Over."

A "Do-Over" morning is one in which the morning has started so terribly that we all freeze in our tracks and declare "Do over!" Sometimes the "do-overs" are humorous and we all go back to our rooms and pretend we just woke up. Some mornings it's just me quietly saying it to myself, re-centering my priorities.

This morning was the latter.

Yesterday we came back from a mini vacation in Alabama. Even though today is Wednesday, coming back from a vacation and starting the week always feels like three Mondays squished together, sent to the DMV and then audited by the IRS. It just does.

The morning was going pretty well, actually. The girls were dressed and ready for the day. Breakfast had been eaten.

Eve asked to play outside. I helped her take her teddy bear and stroller to the back yard and smiled at her joy of outdoors.

Minutes later Eve was banging on the sliding door. "I found the perfect worm!" she squealed.

She was covered in mud. Her shoes were caked beyond recognition. Her hands were covered. There were big muddy footprints all over the patio with little clumps of mud tattling on her voyage to the door.

She came inside and clumped her shoes on the floor, scraping mud on the chair and on the rugs. Her feet and hands were covered in mud. She was absolutely thrilled to find a one inch worm, unaware of her condition.

A little voice in my head said, "Now, Emily, what is more important? Eve or clean floors?" to which I responded, "Clean floors."

I looked at my daughter. She was half naked with messy hair, a runny nose and dirt under her nails. She was looking into my eyes and, without saying so, asking me to accept her the way she was.

She could tell I was mad. She could tell I didn't like her in that moment. She had a scowl mixed with hurt in her eyes.

So I did the best thing I could think of:

"Want to make cookies with Mommy?"

She prepared to say no. I saw her mouth form the words and her scowl turn deeper.

But she stopped. "Wets make cookies, Mom. C'mon."

I dressed my daughter, cleaned her up a bit and we trolloped downstairs. I'm still in my jammies and eyeglasses. My hair is pulled in a pony tail. I don't need to EAT more cookies, but I need to MAKE them with my Eve.

If there's one thing I learned today, it's this:
It might be muddy here, but it smells like cookies.