It is a gloomy day here in my tiny corner of Pennsylvania. A rainy day. A tired day.
After a long weekend, a long couple of weeks, I wave the girls off to school with their dad and wait for the coffee to kick in.
When it doesn’t, I drag myself up the stairs to throw myself down onto the bed that hasn’t yet been made. Cian follows me, his toys in his arms, settling down on the bedroom carpet to play. Twenty minutes of sleep, I promise myself. Just twenty minutes, and then I can tackle the Monday.
Twenty minutes. I rouse to a small child dozing against my side. He senses my movement before I have a chance to open my eyes. “Wake up! Wake up, Mommy! It’s moe-ning.” I roll over to smile at him, but find myself wincing in pain instead. I pull a toy hammer out from under my side. Next, a child-sized flashlight. “My bin-ocklars, Mommy,” he says, his dimpled hand spread wide, reaching toward the blanket. I fish the binoculars out from under the covers and pass them to him, and he grins at me, sliding off the bed like an eel slipping with so much grace through the water. I check the time.
I hear Cian chattering to himself in the other room, and the jingle of the tags on the dog’s collar as she follows him there. There’s the sound of the garage door opening, David arriving home with light bulbs and more coffee and stories of the morning’s drive with our girls.
It’s time to wake up.