Vacations are a lot of fun. Holidays twinkle with excitement for weeks in advance. Birthdays explode with songs and smiles. But the days that stand out? The ones that count for something beyond ceremonious expectancies? Days that really matter. They usually require no planning, no anticipation, they give no remote indication of turning into a super day... until it's nearly over and you wish you could go back to that morning and tell yourself to put on your happy pants because it's gonna be one of those.
I suppose, if we knew in advance, it wouldn't be quite so spectacular. Part of the fun is in not knowing what the next moment will bring. No expectations. Just pure, unedited life.
Waking up early when I thought I was going to get to sleep late, and then getting an hour to myself, drinking coffee while Monsoon enjoyed time to his own self with a box of legos.
A Saturday shower with my husband.
A complete and utter meltdown because Monsoon changed his mind about which spoon he wanted with his yogurt, even though he doesn't like yogurt.
"I can't get my cries out, Mommy." We all feel that way, sometimes. Like maybe we're so full of tears and shudders that if we got in the bathtub, we wouldn't need to turn on the faucet. Sometimes, we just need to let it out, and we'll be better. Sometimes, we don't even know what we're crying about.
Telling the "Mommy saves the day" story. Monsoon taking a nap. A rare, once-every-4-months-or-so nap. On my lap, no less, while I read a good book.
"I'm a baby today, Mommy." That's fine, baby. I'll get the big blanket and show you how I used to swaddle you. You like it so much, you ask me to do it over and over again all day. "Tighter this time," you say. So maybe you can't wriggle free and I'll keep you close to me forever. You're a baby today, because you seem to think that big boys of 4 shouldn't need extra hugs from their Mommies. I don't mind if you want to pretend, but I wish you could let me love you freely.
An hour of preparation for 20 minutes in the snow. His first time sledding. Introducing him to the sledding hill - the one we went to as children. Letting him "steer" the sled. Turning around half way down and accidentally finishing the hill backwards. Twice.
"No, Honey Pot, I can't sit in your lap."
Candy Land, Sorry, Rhino Rampage, a game of War that lasted much longer than one might expect, considering we only used a quarter of the deck, the cards to which were a special gift with our family picture on the back. And the plumber game.
"Let's play that plumber game, Mommy." He means poker. Flushes and all that.
Family movie night, Monsoon's choice. My husband makes popcorn on the stove-top. The boy and I share a few Jr. Mints. He's unbelievably happy sitting on the couch, just the three of us and our snacks.
"When I lived in your belly, I held your heart." Sigh. You still do, son. You still do.
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