Between Bruises & Blooms

There is a mountain
where my bed used to be.

Built from onesies
and tiny leggings,
pajamas with little feet,
shirts stained with supper,
and socks so fucking small
I don’t understand
how they keep disappearing.

Two babies.

That’s it.

Two.

And somehow
they have produced enough laundry
to clothe a small village.

I stand at the bottom
of Mount Baby Laundry
with a cigarette in my hand
and absolutely no desire
to begin climbing.

I’ll fold it.

Eventually.

I’ll match the little pants
to the little shirts,
turn sleepers right-side-out,
wonder where the hell
the other sock went,

and make neat little piles
that will be destroyed
almost immediately.

Because motherhood
is mostly doing things
that will need doing again tomorrow.

Washing.

Folding.

Feeding.

Wiping.

Picking up.

Putting away.

Loving.

Always
loving.

And maybe that’s why
somewhere between
the seventh onesie
and the hundredth pair
of impossibly tiny pants,

I stop laughing.

Because these clothes
won’t always be this small.

One day
their sleepers won’t fit
across my forearm.

Their socks won’t disappear
inside my shirts.

I won’t hold up
a tiny dress
and wonder how someone
I grew inside my body
could possibly fit inside it.

The mountain
will get smaller.

Their clothes
will get bigger.

And someday
I might stand beside
an almost-empty laundry basket

and miss this—

the ridiculous piles,
the milk stains,
the crumbs hiding in sleeves,
the tiny socks
with no fucking partners,

the evidence
scattered across my bed

that two little girls
are growing here.

So tonight,

I’ll smoke my cigarette.

I’ll complain.

I’ll stare dramatically
at Mount Baby Laundry
like it has personally wronged me.

Then I’ll climb.

One tiny onesie
at a time,

trying to remember

that even mountains
become memories.