Someone once described the joy and anxiety of parenthood as the equivalent of having your heart outside of your body all the time, walking around. — President Barack Obama
The children will head back to school tomorrow morning, as they do, after a weekend of playing, finishing homework, goofing around, bickering, whining, giggling.
We had a basic weekend. But tonight was special–we ate out. (Grandma is in town and took us to dinner.)
At the end of the meal, our five-year-old son grew tired and cuddled in my husband’s lap. He wrapped his closer-to-four-than-three-foot frame around his daddy, and my husband rubbed his back, and swayed side to side. It was as if it were 2007, and our son were only two feet tall.
Our daughter, nearly eight, decided that she wanted to snuggle with me. I held her in my lap, and told her that when she was six weeks old, we had to hold her in a very certain way and bounce, constantly, to keep her from crying, for about two hours a day, every day, for weeks. I bounced my big girl. I held her tight. She giggled. Then she just looked at me, closely, and said, “Mmmmm. Mama.”
I’ll drop them off at the car circle tomorrow morning; they’ll head to their classrooms. I’ll wish that I were superhero, who could, if necessary, save the day.
Any day. Every day.
I wish and I wish and I wish.