Thursday, March 29, 2012

Writing in the Margins
























The littlest one comes first; Padded footy pajamas, monkey, and all. I quietly tuck her in at the end of the bed and hope for an extra twenty minutes to close my eyes.

Please, tell me that you did not wake your brothers, I breathe to myself.

No-can-do.

The boys follow their tiny leader up the stairs and into mommy's early morning fog.

I use my skills to convince them that a round of Curious George is just what the morning ordered and then I will myself to be upright by its end.

These early birds expect their worm.

The big girls have lived on the opposite end of the spectrum for a couple of years now. Even if they are in bed by a reasonable time, it does not mean that they are sleeping.

The oldest must sense, in her being, that she comes from a line of night-shift workers on her mother's side. Regularly, she can't sleep.

I am happy that I do not have to force her to be anywhere first thing in the morning. She is snuggled in good and on most days I can leave her there for as long as she needs.

It won't be long before the entire house is bursting with the life of my five, plus two -- daddy and I.

I can't help but think of my to-do-list and all that I know will not get done between the time that the morning's brief hum breaks apart into the first round of clanging dishes and sliding chairs, up until that very last syllable, uttered by late hour Audiobook tale-tellers:

The Have-to's
The Want-to's
The Mommy-will-you-please's

Quickly the lines of my day fill with stories that I will be too tired to recount by night-fall.

I give myself permission to be in that place.

To rest--
Content to write only in the margins of these hours well spent.

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