The ruffles of my toddler’s skirt undulate around her in a wide fan as she twirls until she collapses, too dizzy to continue spinning.

After guiding my hand to tie tiny apron strings around her, my daughter busies herself with miniature pots and pans. She is a flurry of culinary activity, feeding me magic soup and dandelion tea.

New life is waking up all around me. The first spring flowers yawn open. The bees pay a visit. A pink-headed hummingbird swoops down only to pause, suspended and in motion, so close I can see its feathers glisten.

Tiny hands flutter in a flurry of genuflection as we wade our way into the front pew. We’re early by at least 30 minutes, but all the rest have filled up with Mass regulars, eager to beat our the C&E Catholics for good seats.

My toddler is screaming, so it must be Tuesday. His face is scrunched, anger etching hard lines onto his normally round face. His complexion flushes red as he hisses out a frustrated, “No,” through clenched teeth. 

It isn’t a refusal to acquiesce to my request. Quite the opposite: his is a refusal to accept my refusal. 

Except, I haven’t said, “No.” What I said was, “Not right now.”

If you clicked on this expecting a feel-good piece about God’s graces overflowing, I apologize for the story you’re about to hear. This story is about as unspiritual as it gets. This is a story about a toilet. 

It’s quiet in the dark, except for the screaming. I hold my one-year-old, skin hot from fever, as he writhes against me. “No, no” he cries, little hands trying to force me away. He wants neither down nor up. I’m used to being the touch that soothes - a useless gift when everything hurts.

I laugh as the line turns pink. Earlier this week, I told my husband that although we had been trying to conceive our second child for a few months, just one week of juggling night school, full-time teaching, and taking care of our 2-year-old daughter had made me reconsider.

When I open the door and see my mother-in-law standing there, something inside cracks and tears escape down my face. I’m not dressed. Toys and bits of food litter the floor.

The heat is creeping towards 100 degrees today, so ice cream sounds like a good idea.

It could have been a good idea if my toddler had gotten her nap.

“Watch me, Mommy!”

This is the single line of the chorus I hear all day long. Whatever task I am occupied by matters little to my daughter who burns to show me her latest accomplishment.

“I hate you. I hate you!” my daughter screams from behind her door. Her words cut me, but this is hardly the first tantrum that we’ve weathered. I stand outside, deaf to the sound of kicks and screams. They used to break me inside; familiarity has numbed their sting.

"Book!" says my toddler as he hobbles along, dragging a board book behind him. I take it from him and gather him onto what's left of my lap, shrinking away as the new baby grows within it.

It’s December 27th and the house is as quiet as the snow that silently blankets everything outside of our windows in the predawn blackness. The only light in the room glows from our Christmas village where it sits merrily on the mantle, high above greedy fingers whose enthusiasm threatens to crack its delightfully delicate rendition of an idyllic Christmas. The sight the villagers look down upon, however, is another story.

I can’t visit her. I’m taking care of two kids and I’m pregnant. It’s too far, I brush the thought away, and she probably wouldn’t want the company anyway.

But you did.

I’ve been dreading winter, but as my kids press their noses against the cool glass to watch the first snowflakes fall, their anticipation is catching.

My voice comes out in a low hiss, dripping with venom. My daughter’s defiant stare is a dagger that pierces my heart. The somber tones of the “Sanctus” beckon us to prayer, but I am paralyzed. I’m done.

“What if the Catholic school in your area was just phenomenal?” a friend recently asked me. “If they did a fantastic job, wouldn’t you prefer someone else do all that work?”