Before the therapists come over, I hurriedly dress everyone, wipe crusty breakfast remnants of little faces, brighten up my tired face and put on something that says "I plan to accomplish something today." I wipe fingerprints off tables. I relegate clutter to it's rightful home, or at least a different room. I sit and feed Little Miss, or I think of ways to entertain Silas (she's inevitably hungry right when they arrive, and he's inevitably clingy the entire time they're here).
It's all a little unsettling, a little like a performance, but I try to resist that. I voice my concerns, I sing her praises. I pry Silas off my neck. I listen and nod.
When they leave, I am usually overwhelmed by my new to-do list. Today, it's more formula per ounce of water, olive oil, avocado, probiotics. It's massaging open those tiny clenched fists, encouraging sitting and exploration, always pushing her forward. Pushing.
We're pushing ourselves along, looking around to make sure all of us are keeping up.