He wants to know if I have a Scrabble turn. I do, but Facebook is a whole click away, and I’m busy now. Well, can we look at maps? We can’t.
He burrows down next to me and tosses a balloon in the air. I’m two weeks postpartum and I just want to be alone.
The bed jostles with each swipe of his hand, and I know it, I know the irony of the moment, me writing why I keep this blog, and this boy, wanting my attention. I’m deep in words: Slow down! Cherish moments! Love today! And I want to write it, seize my solitude, shove him away.
He laughs about the story he’s telling and these ears, they don’t hear. I understand–such a fool I am!–and I close the screen. This, then, is the discipline, yes, Lord? To really love, to really be?
He smiles at me as I lay my head next to his, tosses the balloon. I stretch up and hit it before he can reach, and his whole body contents. Suddenly I know, achingly know, how hard it is for me to dwell in the present, to engage life and the ones that I love.
This is the best way. This tossing up, and falling down; these hands colliding; the minutes made ours. Life is not mine alone.