I want to believe I won’t forget. That her sticky kisses on my cheek or the way he says “spasketti” will always stay with me. But time has a way of making things hazy, blurring the edges until I’m left grasping at memories that feel like sequins slipping through my hands. That’s why I want to notice. To capture. To wrest these bits of our days onto the page.
Because nothing is inconsequential.
It all matters.
It’s all magic.
December 9, 2024: A day in the life
5:40 am / solitude
My morning routine has ebbed and flowed over the years, but ideally I’m at my desk before 6 am. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I put in my earbuds, crank up Christmas jazz, and try to journal while my farmer officemate pecks away at a spreadsheet or talks to the milk hauler on speakerphone. I’d like to tell you that I show up here every day without fail. I’d like to tell you that I’m always disciplined and productive. I’d especially like to tell you that I have something tangible to show for myself after years of predawn writing. But the truth is, this time has always been more about the practice than the results. Today I can only spare 15 minutes, but it’s enough time for a cup of hot coffee and two chapters of Brian Doyle. Doyle says “attentiveness is the door to holiness” and I can’t help but think that’s exactly the point of what I’m capturing today.
6:30 am / switching gears
The computer snaps shut promptly at 6:30 and it’s time to GSD. I turn on all the lights, empty the dishwasher, and start cooking breakfast while listening to an audiobook (currently: How to Age Disgracefully by Clare Pooley). The Lazy Genius told me to decide once, so breakfast is oatmeal Mon/Wed/Fri and eggs Tue/Thu. All the Hatch nightlights in the house (3) switch from water sounds to CHEERFUL MORNING BIRDS! at 6:45 and several loud thumps from upstairs tell me we’re off to the races.
7:00 am / and so it begins
I usually sit down with 2-4 kids to eat a rushed breakfast before packing lunch bags, tracking down snowpants, and shouting, “Brush your teeth!” No one loves mornings, but Ellis is the only child I have to physically drag out of bed. As for breakfast, four kids take their oatmeal four specifically different ways and if that doesn’t explain the female mental load, I don’t know what will. Kyle’s rarely here because he meets with his first shift employees at 7 am, but if we’re lucky he’ll walk in to say goodbye right as I’m trying to herd the child-cats out the door.
8:35 am / clean before the clean
The kids are at school and I even remembered not to yell “I love you!” to my fifth-grader through the open car door (apparently public Mom love is embarrassing). Now, Wilko and I are back home to engage in that age-old first-world pastime: cleaning for the cleaning people. IYKYK. Last week someone commented on one of my stories, “I don’t know how you keep your house so clean with four kids!” and here’s the secret: I don’t. Sure, I’m an perpetual tidier who organizes toys into labeled bins and has a reputation for throwing away precious art creations made of toilet paper tubes, but our village also includes wonderful people who mop the floors and clean the bathtubs. I don’t think women talk enough about all the ways we keep our worlds afloat because of societal pressure to “do it all!,” but I’m here to tell you that I am not superwoman and there is no gift quite like walking into a clean home and being able to simply enjoy it with my family.
9:15 am / sequestered with a toddler
While the floors get vacuumed, Wilko and I shut ourselves in the office to play tractors and tackle my to-dos. This morning I have to pay a bill, buy Christmas gifts, send an email about health insurance, and schedule several medical appointments—all while Wilko sings Old MacDonald at the top of his lungs and tries to climb on my lap. After his fifteenth request of “Moooooooooom, you play the Fendt song?” I finally switch my Spotify from Christmas jazz to “Wilko’s Demands,” a carefully curated playlist of songs for a toddler with demanding musical taste (mostly for German pop songs about tractors). I sense that productivity will be futile.
11:00 am / early bird lunch
When you’re the fourth kid, you learn to go with the flow. Wilko eats lunch early, naps early, and wakes up at 2:30 to get the kids from school whether he wants to or not. On the upside, he has his own playlist and gets to spend a whole lot of 1:1 time with his mom (nature vs. nurture will ultimately reveal if this is ultimately a good thing). “I think he might be your best friend,” Kyle once joked when he came into the house to hear us having a legitimate—albeit one-sided—conversation about my high school reunion.
12:00-2:00 pm / all the things
The house is quiet and I can finally make my phone calls without an incessant toddler singing in the background. When that’s done, I heat up some taco meat for my own lunch and eat it with chips while watching 10 minutes of The Great British Baking Show. After this paltry amount of escapism, I pop in my earbuds and move on to picking up toys, folding laundry, wrapping gifts, shopping for a new winter coat for Anders, and stuffing Christmas cards.
2:30 pm / pickup line
I drag a groggy, wild-haired Wilko from his crib and offer him a “car bar” for the ride to school. Wilko’s carseat is full of crumbs from my near-daily LaraBar bribery, but we do what we must to survive. I try to listen to a podcast as we drive through the gray drizzle, but Wilko screams, “I no like this guy! Play Johnny Deere!” After two minutes of futile arguing with a two-year-old, I acquiesce and retreat into my own thoughts as music fills the car. Once in the kindergarten line, I pull out my book and chuckle at the sound of Wilko singing in faux German to his stuffed pig.
3:05 pm / reunited
“Sorry we’re late, Mom!” Ellis says as she climbs into the car. “There was a dog in my classroom and it really slowed the kindergarteners down.” “It licked me right in the face!” Henning squeals as he appears behind her, eyes bright and cheeks red from the cold. “Cool!” I say as I help them load up coats, backpacks, and art projects before driving away. On the way to Anders’ building, we talk about dogs and gym class and hot lunch (today’s bacon sandwich apparently changed Henning’s life). I love to hear their stories and get a glimpse into their world away from me.
4:15 pm / postwar snacktime
Rainy days call for hot chocolate. But lest you think we’re living in a Thomas Kinkade wonderland of sleigh rides and rosy-cheeked angel-children saying “Yes Mummy” to my every whim, we’re having this snack at 4:15 pm because it took 45 minutes after we got home to break up a knock-down, drag-out fight that started between two kids in the car. Punches were thrown. Names were called. A brother’s backpack was tossed onto the wet driveway. After the boiling emotions cooled, we had conversations about forgiveness and empathy and how it’s ok to feel angry but it’s not ok to hurt people when you feel angry (a phrase I say 10 times a day). Now that the dust has settled, the kids tuck into their hot drinks and I pray that I’m getting more things right than wrong.
5:15 pm / bait and switch
I told my husband around noon that I had no idea what to make for dinner. Tonight, Kyle pulls into the driveway an hour earlier than usual with a plan to make something called goulash, despite the fact we don’t have most of the key ingredients. “I’ll improvise,” he grins, never one for directions or recipes anyway. Just then his phone rings. “Kids!” He shouts after hanging up. “There are cows out. Who wants to help?” “Me!” says Anders, springing from the couch and following Kyle out the back door. And just like that, I’m back to culinary square one. I wonder how long we should wait before pivoting to a dinner of cereal.
6:00 pm / dinnertime
Apparently the jailbreak wasn’t a bad one and my cow wranglers have returned. Kyle mixes a sizzling pan of beef, tomatoes, and noodles on the stove and I—perhaps giddy over the presence of another adult human in the house—light a bunch of candles and crank up “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga. The kids groan as I do the robot and twerk my rhythmless Dutch body along with the music, but soon, we’re all dancing. When the food is ready, our cacophony transitions to a calm(ish) candlelit dinner. (Pro tip: if you’ve spawned a crew of picky Philistines, keep the lights as low as possible when serving a new dish.) No one eats much, but we giggle, play Fortunately/Unfortunately, and enjoy being together.
7:30 pm / lost in a story
Wilko is down for the night after reading six Christmas books and singing two songs. Now it’s time for homework. Baritone practice. PJs. Tooth brushing. The big kids beg to watch a Mark Rober video before bed, but as much as I believe in the importance of STEM, I also believe in the power of stories. We snuggle into the couch and I start reading aloud (with voices/accents, natch, because once a theater kid, always a theater kid). Before long, we’re all immersed in another world.
8:00 pm / prep and landing
Kisses, hugs, prayers, and lights off. Anders reads Garfield in bed and the littler kids listen to their Yotos. Back downstairs, Kyle loads the dishwasher and wipes noodles off the table while I start making tomorrow’s lunches. All of these rote tasks seem to sparkle in the light of the Christmas tree, still-burning candles, and the warm feeling in my stomach from being cozied up together on the couch.
9:45 pm / winding down
Ellis is still awake because Ellis never sleeps, so Kyle and I switch on an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine to keep us awake in case she comes downstairs with more questions about war or slavery (thanks, Exodus story). At long last, when I check on the kids before going to bed myself, all four are asleep. It’s when I stroke their soft cheeks in the dark that I feel it: the awe of simple magic. It’s a throb. An ache. An undercurrent of holiness that winds through these ordinary days filled with ordinary things. Today I’m grateful for the reminder to notice.
I wrote this blog post in response to the prompt #ordinarymagic — an invitation to find the sparkle in our typical days using photos and words. For more ordinary magic, check out the writing of my friends Kimberly Knowle-Zeller, Melissa Kutsche, and Erin Strybis.
Modern Farm Wife 