The night was pretty rough.
I decided (at 1 a.m.) to never again read “The Billy Goats Gruff” before bedtime. Smaller minds can’t handle the drama.
So, I took the haunted three year old to bed with me and he pat my back as I hauled him down the hall. It was a glimpse of beautiful, five minutes after I had groggily muttered that I was about to lose my temper because I need my sleep like fish need water, like Captain needs Tennille, like apples need bananas.
There’s never enough sleep around here.
There’s never enough coffee.
There’s never enough “me” time.
I open my eyes and realize that the tiny baby I just met yesterday is now running around and telling me he loves Pirates and showing me his Big Jumps.
And somewhere in the fog of motherhood I missed the part where he learned to talk, much less notice Pirates.
And the other baby that I held, head cradled gently for over a year because of low muscle tone?
He is practically jumping off the slide at the playground. He is clapping his hands and running to me the minute his feet touch the ground, because he doesn’t realize that I am a troll in the early morning. He is hitting me with a toy hammer when I’m not looking, because his big “bruver” has taught him to sword fight, but everyone is a tad vague on the rules.
I don’t have to hold his head up any more.
Quickly and slowly, I am realizing there’s a smallish window of opportunity for all the cuddles and all the kisses and all the gun slinging, light saber wielding, pirate playing.
The sleep? There’s coffee for that.
The coffee? It’s microwavable.
There’s no reviving the Here and Now,
the years I don’t want to miss because I was busy worrying about the state of my laundry pile (not good),
the Two and the Three.
No matter how tired and dreary I may feel, or how frigid my flesh, it’s Spring in my house with these bright little beings. I’m going to keep the Frost to myself and enjoy the little boy blooms…and if I’m feeling really worn out, I may eat a brownie.