There is peanut butter on the doorknob.

Coffee cup in one hand, I stumble after my 17 month-old who is chattering away Mogwai-style, and quickly wipe my other greasy hand on my pajama pants. I ensure that she is not about to ingest any number of the choking hazards my 4 year old has left splayed on our floor.

It is 6:45 am on a Saturday morning, and in about an hour I will rush off to round in the hospital with my fellow, where we will consult on a list of anywhere from 15-20 patients. Just 45 minutes ago my two alarms went off: One crying for a frozen waffle to soothe her mercilessly erupting teeth, the other whose warm breath condensed on my face as he loudly whispered over and over, “Mama, is it daytime yet? Mama, is it daytime yet?”

Though I am an infectious disease physician, I am still a little unsure if the frozen waffle is completely safe. I have not heard of any recent Listeria or E. coli outbreaks associated with frozen waffles. (A quick Google search suggests that it can in fact happen in post-production, though no outbreaks have been reported.) She pulls her hair in frustration, so I try to toast it as quickly as possible.

I am a little more fuzzy than usual this morning. I had the audacity to go out with a few friends last night who patiently listened to me complain. I have no time to exercise. I am exhausted all the time.

But I chose this life. I am privileged. I have a supportive partner and enough income to allow me to pursue the professional ambition that I refuse to relinquish. In my late 30s, I no longer apologize for this. I outsource as much as I feel comfortable doing with my home obligations, but for me, this level of comfort is constantly reassessed. I want to be there for my kids for all the trivial and treasured milestones. I want to be the one to teach them about how to treat people, and I want to be there to watch the world, so new and uncharted, from their eyes.

I was lucky to have witnessed both of my children take their first steps, but I recognize that it was a bit of a fluke. I could have easily been rounding in the hospital, seeing patients in clinic, or giving a lecture when they giddily ambled across the living room, high on life and their crowning achievement to date.

For the fifth time that morning, I loudly state to our family that I am going to go and take a shower. It is a statement I must make to ensure that all small bodies —  2 kids, 1 hound — are accounted for during my 5 minutes of alone time in our house.

We quickly gather the crew into the car and buckle them in. They are going to drop me off at the hospital before heading to swim class. I will miss the first time my “selectively” cautious first-born puts his head under water while my trailblazer floats on her back with grace. I pour the last bit of coffee into my thermos, emblazoned with the words “homeless clinic preceptor.” It is a small reminder of my professional ambition to help the underserved, to teach our future generations, to be a better doctor and to write about it all.

Before I walk out the door, I take an old rag and start wiping.

There is no longer peanut butter on the doorknob.

Tara Vijayan is an infectious disease physician.

Image credit: Shutterstock.com