So, it’s been a week.

First you all raised $5,000 in less than 12 hours for a community water and laundry project in South Africa. (Stay tuned for what we’re gonna build next month!)

Second I flew to Kansas City to be at the MOPS International Convention and shoot some videos about the significance of motherhood. Especially on those wash and rinse and repeat days that all feel the same. IN A LAUNDROMAT.

MOPS Laundry

Third, next week this time a lot of us will be together at the Allume Blogging conference doing this crazy writing gig live together. A Five Minute Friday flash mob. If you’re coming, let us know over here won’t you? So we can get a head count.

It will be in the (in)courage lounge at 10pm Thursday night. Sign up here. And come even if you haven’t signed up – everyone welcome!

Deep breath.

Time to write.

Not to worry about the week or the odd sticky patches on the floor or whether or not the kids are remembering to do their homework while I’m away.

Time to write.

All the details about how to join are over here.

And the prompt this week? Could it really be anything else? — It’s Laundry.

GO:

It’s easy to get lost in the sameness. The one day that unfolds into the next and the only difference is that this morning I served Cheerios instead of eggs. There are the school bags that weren’t put back on the hook and the dirty socks lying rag tag next to the bathtub instead of in the laundry basket.

There are the midnight wake ups and the 4:30 am wake ups and the begging the alarm clock for mercy and instead getting up with a toddler who has to go potty. You load the words and the clothes. You sort the frustration and the temper tantrums. You ache to make sense of the mess and feel your head caught up like a whirly gig lost in the rinse cycle.

And a buzzer constantly going off in your head.

Maybe this is why the word, “just” has slipped sneaky sneaky in front of the description of what you do – “I’m just a mom.”

Just a life saver.

Just a human raiser.

Just a 24/7 on demand care taker.

The lie of what we “just” do can take root and rob a woman of the glory of raising the next generation of humans. This wonder. This miracle. This might terrifying task so heavy it takes multiple arms and multi-tasking to raise it.

To say it. To own it. To mean it.

The more.

The much much more that you are.

How you take him for counselling. How you find new ways to talk to her about beauty – the deep down kind that no one can see. How you remember to drop off the soccer cleats and pick up the car from its oil change.

How you remember your sisters in South Africa and spend a day doing virtual laundry with them – one wonderous load at a time. And this sharing of ordinary, boring makes us family. Builds a bridge. Lights a fire.

Until we are head up and hair tied up in that messy bun proud to wear the word, “mom,” like that pair of jeans that fits just right. Comfy, soft, familiar.

Mom.

(Confession, this one took me more than five minutes. Yup, that’s just the honest truth).

OK your turn….

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