We had a rough morning today.  The baby, JD, was in to everything.  This does not make it easy to cook breakfast, and I was doing it up right.  Ok, no pancakes, but if there is fruit, meat, toast and eggs, there better not be any complaining.

I finally had enough ready to holler at the boys to shut off the tv and wash up for breakfast.  I kept buttering the toast, but it eventually registered that the baby was laughing in his high chair.

I turn around to find my oldest, pants partially down, and waggling his dangly parts at the baby (who couldn’t see this due to his tray, but enjoyed the attention nonetheless).

“Put that back in your pants, go wash your hands and get your butt to the table!”  My future flasher sulked off to the bathroom.

Later in the day, when the detritus of children had magically appeared under our feet, my husband asked me “do you ever feel like you are spinning your wheels?  That you keep doing the same thing over and over?”

“Baby,” I told him, “my life is like that movie Groundhog Day.  I keep living the same day over and over again.”

Except that isn’t quite accurate.  I do not get a chance to finally figure out exactly what it is I am supposed to do.  Just when I think if the kids do A, then I do B, they come up with C and D.  Or waggling their dangly bits around until I end up screaming and wondering if it is too early for a screwdriver (it usually is).

It does not matter if you work or if you stay at home.  Your days still run together as a blur of meal preparation, dishes, discipline, laundry, and only seem distinguishable by the rare adorable moment or unique brand of mischief.

The DVR does not help.  I find myself asking the kids “didn’t you just watch that episode yesterday?”  Yes.  Yes, they did.  I have listened to enough episodes of “Phineas and Ferb” and “Rescue Heroes” that I can quote way too many scenes.

Spinning my wheels, indeed.  My day isn’t complete if I don’t pick up the recycling off the floor, retrieve at least two Tupperware lids the baby ran off with, holler at someone to put some pants on FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, listen to copious amounts of whining and bickering, find the baby splashing in the toilet, turn off the bathroom light, step on a Lincoln Log, put a Band Aid on someone, put at least three pairs of abandoned dirty socks in the hamper, etc, ad nauseum.

And let’s be honest: husbands contribute to the madness as well.  Mine developed a nasty iced tea habit once he discovered I “knew how to make tea.”  Then he tries to soften the blow with “but you make it so much better than I do!”  You sync their iPods, download their Podcasts, pack their lunches, put away their laundry, set the clocks ten minutes fast so they get to work on time.

Mine recently bemoaned that our garden didn’t produce any “pickles” this year, and everyone was coming to work with them.  Well, I had plenty of pickles in the crisper.  They just never peeled and sliced themselves and lept into his lunchbox of their own volition.

Yes, I feel like I am spinning my wheels most of the time.  I know I bring most of it on myself.  But why do we do it?

Because we love them.  We wouldn’t have it any other way.  Well, we would, but that whole love thing is pretty strong.

So we make the tea, cut the crusts off of sandwiches, program the DVR to tape their shows, make three meals a day and end up ass deep in dirty dishes, peel and slice the cucumbers, and try not to yell too much.

We try not to think about the last time we showered without someone beating on the door, or why our deodorant stick has bite marks in it.  We use the toilet paper that was rolled all the way to the floor.  We make the one millionth grilled cheese and shudder only slightly.

Life does get repetitive.  We all spin our wheels at some point, seldom realizing we are still inching ahead.  Notice it or not, it still happens.  But if you are like me, and finding odd colored hairs in various places, you probably realize that routine or not, time marches on.

And once those kids get on that bus, Mommy is going to do some plucking!