I sit in the living room tapping away at my computer while my baby stands behind me, part play, part cling. Her tiny nails occasionally dig into my neck and I let out small, involuntary cries. Again I promise myself I’ll trim those nails when I go upstairs—why trimming a baby’s nails always feels like a huge task still puzzles me.
One of the older girls chatters nonstop while the other is being gently disciplined for a tantrum after her request was refused. As Girl Two recites a contrite, amplified “Mama, I’m sorry, I will not do that again,” Girl One keeps up her constant stream of conversation. I ask Girl Two to stand up; she springs to her feet and finds something else to do with her energy.
My eyes land on the living room rug and I feel a familiar twinge of disappointment. What was once a cream-colored rug is now a pale brown and generously speckled with stains—each holding its own memory. A banana once squashed into it left a dark patch no amount of scrubbing removed. There’s a bright red strawberry stain, a milk ring, a juice blotch. Tiny crumbs and bits are scattered everywhere—some black, some brown, some barely visible but unmistakably there.
I stand and tell myself tonight will be cleaning night with the girls. I start in the kitchen: the sink filled with dirty plates, a saucepan and a few cups. I grab my trusty sponge, squeeze on some dish soap and begin washing. Footsteps announce the baby’s approach; she hurries over and clings to me. Hungry, she needs feeding, so I leave the dishes and tend to her first.
I heat up a leftover wrap of fufu on a plate and spoon some okra soup beside it. It’s around 7:30 p.m., and bedtime for the older girls is looming. The laundry mountain waits, but the folding session I’d hoped to make into a fun activity with the girls won’t happen tonight—if it does, they’ll be up too late and I need them in bed on time.
Balancing the baby on one hip, I continue preparing the evening. I tell the older girls to head upstairs for bed; they sprint away, and Girl One clutches two books she wants read. In their room I read aloud while the baby wriggles on my lap, occasionally trying to grab the book. We say our prayers, I remind them to brush their teeth, then hurry downstairs to finish feeding the baby while stealing a few tastes of the fufu and okra for myself.
After she’s fed, I place an order for a customer for my beauty consultant business and answer a couple of important emails. I give the baby a bath, dress her in pajamas, prepare her formula and work through the bedtime routine. It takes a while before she finally drifts off. When she’s breathing deeply in her crib, I tiptoe away—reluctant to risk waking her with the toilet flushing, so I hold off until I’m sure she’s settled.
Back downstairs, I take a deep breath, pop some popcorn in the microwave and pour sparkling juice into a wine glass. I sit, chew popcorn and sip my drink, savouring a small pocket of calm after a chaotic day. It feels indulgent and necessary.
The dishes remain in the sink, the living room still needs vacuuming and the laundry mountain hasn’t been conquered. For now I’ll let those chores wait. Body no be firewood—I did what mattered today: kept Mr. N and the girls fed, bathed and loved.
Recently at church we revisited the story of Mary and Martha (Luke 10:38–42). Martha busied herself with good and practical tasks while Mary chose to sit and listen. The reminder was simple: this season is ultimately about Christ, not the endless lists and preparations. Life comes down to choices, and learning to choose what matters is wisdom.
That’s my update. How are you doing? Sending you warm wishes and a few kisses.