Motherhood by the Numbers

                It’s 9:40 AM on my easy day, known to the rest of the world as Wednesday.  This is the day all three of my kids are in school for a few hours, hence it being the “easy” day.  So far today, I’ve nursed one baby, filled three sippy cups of milk, and three thermoses of water.  I packed three lunches, cutting 1 sandwich into a heart shape and 2 into the shape of penguins.  I wiped up two milk spills and drank four cups of (half caff) black coffee.  I made 4 beds, opened 16 blinds, and let the dog out twice.  I lost one contact lens, then found two on the floor (yuck...clearly need to sweep more thoroughly!)  I brushed four sets of teeth, located 5 mittens (the 6^th is still hiding somewhere), and packed three backpacks.  I started one load of laundry, poured two bowls of cereal, and toasted three pieces of bread.  I opened one yogurt container, wiped up one spilled cereal, and broke up two arguments over the cartoon selection.  I brushed two girls’ hair and made two baby pigtails.  I ignored one tantrum over the baby wanting to cut her own toast with a knife and comforted one preschooler whose toast got eaten by a pesky dog.

I listened to “Let it Go” four times, overheard part of the same Barney episode twice, and rocked out to some old school Nirvana once (while out of earshot of the kiddos).  I carried two kids to the bus stop, raced back inside for two due library books, and waved goodbye to one excited first grader.  I changed one diaper, made three phone calls and read twenty-seven emails.  I prevented one naughty baby from coloring on the new couch and wedged four resistant arms into winter coats.  I buckled two kids into car seats, drove to one awesome preschool and trudged into the building carrying one kid, two lunches, one purse, and two backpacks, arriving right at 9:15.  In short, it was a typical, if not smoother-than average morning for me.

As I was rushing through all of this, it struck me how much of my day—every mom’s day, really—is determined by the numbers.  To some extent, motherhood is all about the numbers.

There’s the important numbers, like how many kids you have, how old they are, maybe even how old you are.  Then there’s the less important stuff, like how many bites it takes your preschooler to eat a banana (seriously, I have a 4 year old who can drag a single banana into a 45-minute, 30-bite ordeal) or how many Barbie shoes you may or may not have thrown away the last time you vacuumed.

There’s another number that always seems to run my day, and that’s the number on the clock.  Pre-kids, I was never late.  I was virtually always early, in fact.  Now, I’m occasionally on time, never early, and no matter how early I start getting everyone ready for school, the 8:31 bus pickup time always catches us by surprise.  Then there’s preschool drop-off, preschool pickup, dance class, baby music class, bus drop off time, and gymnastics class.  Nap time, dinner time, bath time, bed time…there’s never enough time and I’m always checking that number on the clock.

When we have a newborn, the numbers that matter are simple: how many times did baby eat in 24 hours and how many times did she pee and poop?  At some point, hours of sleep start to matter too (for baby, not you… that’s not going to be a number you’ll have the luxury of worrying about for another decade). 

Numbers become a source of stress once our kiddos reach toddlerhood, if not before.  Then, we get lectures on their health numbers—their weight, height, whether their percentiles changed.  This is also the age when we all start comparing the milestones… If your neighbor’s son walked at 11 months, should you be worried that your 13 month old still crawls?  If your 2.5 year old isn’t potty trained, well you bet your aunt can tell you all about how hers were out of diapers by 20 months.  How many words does your 2 year old say?  What time does he go to bed?  How often does he bathe?  It’s all about the numbers.

It’s not much better when they reach elementary school.  Between the standardized testing that begins in September of the kindergarten year and the weekly Rocket Math / Minute Math speed tests, your kid is measured by numbers. Then for the parents, there’s the constant discussion of the class size, numbers of kids from certain income groups or neighborhoods in each school, and the unending fundraising goals.

We’re still in the toddler-preschooler-and early elementary school phases, and I’m already dreading the big numbers…you know, the SAT scores, the number that dictates when they can drive, vote, drink, date (can we make a law for that one???)… EEEEEEEEEEEK! 

There’s the professional numbers, which vary from job to job, but for me, involve billable hours each week and year, numbers of continuing education classes I’ve completed, word count of my latest novel, and deadlines for manuscript edits.  And don’t forget those personal numbers that matter…you know, like the last five pounds of baby weight (and how many times I’ve lost and regained it), how many miles I’ve run each week, how fast, etc.

I’m not a math girl, never have been, and never will be.  All of these numbers really make me want to do like Elsa and LET IT GO!

Sadly, I don’t anticipate suddenly letting go of the focus on the numbers.  I’m pretty sure that even if I consciously try not to count, I’ll still know when Jeremy whines about changing a diaper blowout that I changed the last eleven.  So, my goal for the rest of the week is to focus on the fun numbers… the number of baby giggles I elicited; the number of spins my preschooler does before toppling over, and the number of time Sophia says “like” or “awesome” before catching herself talking like a teenager and laughing uproariously. 

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