A body weary from early mornings, late nights and countless laps around the house holding small hands clinging to security.
Hair tussled from taking time each morning to carefully quaff and style everyone else’s.
Re-wearing the same jeans. Again. Because uniforms come first.
A cup of coffee reheated in the microwave. Again. From breakfast. And now it’s 8pm.
Sleep-warm cheeks nuzzled into my neck, and wiggly body pressed to mine.
Sleepy prayers whispered from toy-laden pillows. Prayers for rainbows and sunshine and the puppy next door.
Cold fingers gripping mine under a fleece blanket, curled up on the couch.
The feel of the smooth skin of youth on my fingers as I fulfill the familiar request: Mommy, will you please scratch my back.
The sound of feetie-jammie clad feet puttering down the stairs in the dark hours of a cold morning.
The sweet, slightly food-muffled sound of a child’s voice: Thanks for cookin’, Mom.
A small pair of hands working diligently, carefully, next to mine to prepare a wholesome meal.
The crazy spastic flapping of arms in a crib at the sight of my face entering the room.
A toothy grin from the baby.
A toothless grin from the 7 year old.
The strong yet tender arm of the man I love wrapping around me, even after a day when I wouldn’t want to come near me.
Three sets of blue eyes, shining and dancing as they play together.
The deep sense of satisfaction at the end of a day well lived. And the comforting wave of mercy extended after a day best forgotten.
Disclaimer: This post was written after a week of seeing anything but the beauty of motherhood. They say (whoever they are) that feeling follows action. This was my action.