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I live with a 4-year-old who wakes me up every morning at 7:14 a.m. to inform me that he wants his waffle. Our daily routine is the same: I blindly follow him downstairs, pop a couple of Eggos in the toaster, and turn the TV to the Disney Channel. This gives me the few minutes that I need to retrieve my two-year-old from his crib and change his diaper.

After walking the dog in my pajamas, I come back in to find the 2-year-old desperately trying to reach the syrup in the pantry as the 4-year-old makes a mess attempting to poke a hole in his juice box. This is the same, exact, messy routine that we follow each and every morning, which leaves me to wonder ... when did I accept the starring role in the movie "Groundhog Day"?

The reoccurrence and predictability of my days as a mother baffles me. Even with an occasional doctor's appointment or playdate with a friend, our days remain basically unchanged. I pick up and clean the same toys, wash the same Elmo shaped plates, and take out the same stinky diaper pail at the end of every day. It's an enchanting existence that I get to experience over and over again.

Even the with extreme certainty of what tomorrow will bring, I still manage to wake up with freshly renewed optimism. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll want cereal instead of waffles.

A mama can only hope.