Like many mornings, today I woke to Asher's footsteps making their way into our room and ending as he climbed under Husband's and my covers. Being greeted by his sweet little face and infectious giggles over nothing is the most pleasurable way to wake. We stare at each other for a moment, but quickly the stare turns into smiles from each of us. I'm captured by his dimples; one on each side of his soft cheeks. How'd a boy get so beautiful? God made me that way, he explains. I like to claim his dimples, just as my Grandma has claimed mine over the years, but it was God, he reminds me, it was God who went and planted two perfect indentations on his sweet face. You have pretty eyes, Mama, he says while we snuggle. I nearly melt into the mattress and pull him closer. Never mind the fact that I have eyeliner smudged about my eyes because I failed to remove yesterday's makeup before bed. I envision him grown, on the verge of manhood. An assurance that our bond will always be close fills me; that his love and hugs will never end, and that his respect for me will never cease, because there is nothing more important to his father. For a split second I consider the day that he will find his own woman to love and cherish, and I think of a handful of women who have given their boys away to be loved by another woman; a woman who will enrich his life and give the utmost love, respect and encouragement. Horror scenarios of overbearing and nosey mothers flash into my mind, but quickly I move on, because I will never be these things. My son will know a good woman when he sees her, and if he chooses to make the investment, she'll be a blessing to us all.
Ten seconds pass, and Asher's back on the floor. He opens the sliding glass door, and the cool, quiet, country air flows in. The drapes are mostly closed, but through one end I can see lush branches of evergreen trees cascading down from the sky. I'm here. Laying in bed with the man that I love, with one puppy running up and down the hallway after two rested children, who are laughing, yelling, being the funny little souls they are. I'm happy. God is good, and it is the only explanation I can come up with for having the life that I have.
French toast? Husband asks, as we head into the kitchen. I shoulder-shrug, as I think about last night's 10:30pm french toast feast. Husband doesn't want to hear my complaints about food and what I should and shouldn't be eating. I think I'll make some eggs, I respond. I look out the kitchen window and see a bunny hopping near the edge of the grass. We need to put that gate up in the garden, I say. The stories of Peter Rabbit and Mr.McGregor have truth, I've learned. Those little rabbits are all over the property, and a 20 x 15 foot garden is like an organic supermarket for those nibbling, white, cotton-tailed creatures.
Fifteen minutes unfold, with one child in her room for timeout until breakfast, one racing his monster truck around the kitchen, a full plate of cinnamon french toast, and Husband hurrying around the house. Aren't you going to eat, I ask. No, I've got to go, he says, retracing his steps in search of his watch. He allows her out from timeout, kisses her, kisses him, kisses me, and off he goes.
I reheat the griddle. I cut up french toast and holler for the kids. I call Husband on the phone to ask him, how do I like my eggs, again? Over medium, he says. Do you remember how to do it? He tells me the steps again, and we hang up.
Two eggs over-medium, one french toast, one happy family
and another morning that I'm happy to say I'm alive.
xx
Do you have little things that you'd like to share?
Please do by linking up to The Little Things on right side-bar.
And please do give some love to the others who share their joy!
