on a Tuesday Morning
It’s always surprising when the boys sleep past 6:30. I am already dressed and on my second cup. I’ve already scratched out a list – or two. Seth has put in an hour and a half of pajama lawyering at the dining room table. This is our favorite time of day, the gray dark, the animals that tip-toe right before day turns on, a few words slipped in like spice for the pallet. It changes the flavor of the whole day.
I have on a new shirt, had to buy new ones that are longer and not as tight. So much clings. I find myself clinging to the old, and it’s so silly.
Here comes the zipper-pajama one, the young one who nestles. I hold and I breathe, at first because my friends who have lost little ones have all said, “breathe them. hold them,” but after a second I inhale because he is perfume. Yes, he smells a little like pee, but also like heavy child sleep, like sweet playdough in Big God hands. I am nothing to do with His making, how great a child.
He kisses my neck where he just scratched, where I said, “Ouch!” He kisses me now, this Tuesday morning, and I receive it, then he squirms away.