Nothing gets done (and that's ok)

It's Sunday evening and we've just gotten home from a long, but fun, weekend of social engagements. You're passed out in your car seat, so I leave you in it on the living room floor. Maybe now I can finally do those dishes that have been piling up since *blush* Friday morning. Maybe I can even put away the non-perishables that have been sitting on our counter since my last grocery trip. But first I need to feed the dogs. Oh, and pee.
Just as I'm headed for the bathroom, a whimper comes from your car seat. I tell myself it's nothing. Just a dream. But by the time I've finished peeing, you're full-on crying.
So here I am: sitting on the couch, chicken pecking at the computer keys with my left hand while you nurse in my right arm. In a minute you'll need to burp, and that takes two hands. Then we'll change your diaper and put you in some jammies. I'll try to get you settled in bed, and that will likely take nursing again. Which means me crawling in bed with you.
And so it will be gone. My little burst of energy that I had when I came home will be spent. It will be after 11 pm and I'll be exhausted. And the dishes still won't be done and the food still won't be put away. Not to mention the state of the floors or the dusting that's been neglected for too long already.
I know that taking care of you - feeding you, loving you, breathing you in - isn't nothing. In fact, it's the greatest kind of "something" I am capable of doing. I tell myself not to worry about the mess, to savor these moments, because already I feel them flying by.
Sit on the couch with you in my arms for thirty more minutes. Snuggle with you in bed for one more hour. It's all that really matters.
The dishes do not.
But they're driving me crazy.