Still

It’s moments like this that hug me, and I wish for them never to let go.  I watch with glistening eyes, working hard to balance being the thankful mother of one thriving, beautiful boy with the agony of being the mother of his beautiful sister, not thriving.

Still, there they are, both beautiful, and I smile my gladness at them.  He loves to play with her hair.  “So soft," he repeats, as he rubs his back on her head and squeezes her neck.  Gently, sugar I remind him.  "Okay, sugar" he replies, maintaining his too-tight grip.  I want to hold on with such strength too.

Today he made up a story about a friend who fell down the stairs.  When he recognizes letters he describes their sounds: "The D says da da da dog."  He talks to a photograph of a family member - in a frame that he likes to knock over - admonishing the picture repeatedly "Be careful, Tommy."  When he picks up the phone, he orders "pizza, please."
I listen to him, happily, but with the wish that another were speaking too.

Still, there is a tender little voice in my house, and he says all kind of things that make my heart quietly thrill.  This week "Celie girl" and "Fank you much" are my favorite.

Fank you much for Celia's new hat, Grandma Jan! 

I find gifts in mundane living, like the joy of writing a to-do list in rainbow colors because someone left his crayons out close by.  I grow weary with nothing else to do, and am not embarrassed to admit that sometimes being a mom is lonely. Even though I am never alone.

Still, days at home are pure pleasure in snatched moments.  Late in the day, when every flat surface is covered with toys and books, art work and lunch leftovers, when chaos threatens to overwhelm, I choose to see the living at which the messes point.  The living.

Not necessarily marked by anything noteworthy or unusual, I imagine someday I’ll look back on todays and want, more than anything, their return.
JEB