Mercurial

There are days when this little blog seems like a chore, thus there are many days without writing or uploading or taking time to sit back and observe this life of mine.  Much like cleaning the house, or exercising, I can almost always come up with an excuse to neglect writing.   Here is an attempt to not make so many excuses - Just Write.





As I do every morning, I take just a second to watch you sleep before forcing you to get up and face your kindergarten day.  You're a tangle of long limbs, plaid nightgown and messy hair.  Your pillows are strewn across the floor and you are so serenely curled under your green Tinkerbell blanket, clutching doggie, that I wish just for a moment I could nudge you over and join you in such slumbering bliss.
But I can't.  We have a morning to face. 
As it turns out this is a morning of tears and stomping and impatience.  Unkind words are spat out, sadly by both of us.  You call me mean; I tell you are behaving a like a baby not a big girl.  While you sulk off to the bathroom - sulking because you are cold and tired, your feet tingle and the cut on your thumb hurts - I trudge into your sister's room feeling defeated by the day and it's not even eight o'clock.

By the time the waffles were toasted and the cups of milk poured, you had moved on, telling me stories about school yesterday; asking if we could exercise this afternoon..  The discontent of waking up had drifted away and yet there I was, a 35 year old stewing in impatience and frustration.  I banged around the kitchen, putting away dishes, cleaning off counter tops, grumbling about the daily clutter I continuously confront; still stewing, only half listening.

Once your coat was zipped, back pack on and slightly too big hat pulled over your ears, we headed to the garage to wait for the bus.  I could feel my irritation starting to ebb, but it was still just there, under the surface.  Without hesitation you slipped your gloved hand into my mine and leaned against my side, forlornly observing that all the snow had melted from front our yard. 

Mom, you said, I wish we lived in their house, pointing wistfully across the street to our neighbor's snow covered front yard. 
I'll ask them if they have room for you I replied, smiling.
No Mama!  No.  I don't really want to live there.  I want to be right here with you.  And you squeezed my hand ever so slightly harder.

Suddenly the bus pulled down the street, a quick peck and hurried I love you and off you ran to your day.  I lingered on the driveway an extra few seconds marveling at your ability to move on and was rewarded by you pressing your face to the foggy bus window, vigorously waving and blowing me a kiss farewell.