Normal Day

I woke up to warm little feet pressing into the small of my back. I knew that if I moved at all, my sleep was over. But I turned over. "Bummer!" Ethan said, and waited for me to laugh. I did. Rather than jumping up and yelling it repeatedly, though, he just snuggled in and reached for my hand. Ethan likes to hold my hand.

Aaron opened his eyes. Head pressed into Josh's chest, he said, "I love you, Mom," and let his eyes close again. He always wakes up slowly.

Then the day begins. Diapers, laundry, hunger and thirst, dishes, spills, whining, crying, laughter, and of course Hot Wheels and trains and tracks. The cushions are off the couch so they can watch the cars and buses go by. I will probably sew something today; Ethan will nap at the usual time; Aaron will ask to go to the playground, or to the museum if it rains. 

Normal day.

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return." 

Mary Jean Iron