I give all my time to nothing.

Not a "real" job that keeps food on the table and pays the bills,

but to

cleaning and laundry and more cleaning and more laundry,

to mental and calendar planning,

to meal planning, meal cooking, and meal cleaning,

to chauffeuring,

to vacuuming,

to preparing snacks,

to vacuuming again 'cause, well, snacks,

to sorting and organizing,

to decluttering,

to purchasing and adding to the clutter,

to helping with homework,

to battling over it, too,

to parks and playdates,

to picking up and dropping off and picking up and dropping off,

to rushed showers and baths,

to curating drive-thru dinners,

to donning the guilt of serving a McDonald's meal as an entree,

to reading books,

to snuggling up for shows,

to preventing and kissing boo-boos,

to bedtime cuddles,

to nighttime prayers

and then to a heaping plate of good cheese and cheap wine.

Sometimes I feel like I give all my time to nothing.

Nothing laudable, anyway.

Nothing that's out of the ordinary or beyond.

Nothing that wins me any awards or earns me the big bucks.

But, oh, hey, how about that — as it turns out,

I give my all to everything.

Because my everything is just three things and

one is ten,

one is seven

and one is five.