He wakes me at 6:30, happy voice talking loudly from his crib too early on a Saturday morning. I go to him, little boy with sticking up hair clutching an orange kitty and a tattered blanket.
Hand in hand we go down the stairs, happy boy hopping and sleepy mama shuffling. I crumble food into the fishbowl as he watches saying, "Num, nums". We eat cereal and toast. He repeatedly punches open my computer's disk drive as I check my email. His pestering to watch his "Dump, Dump" movie leaves me no option of answering mail.
Wearing my favorite nightgown I sweep the floors, then get down on my hands and knees, lumbering over hardwood with a bucket and a rag. He dances about spreading toast crumbs, emptying the crayon box, spilling his milk, and talking about "Dah, Dah".
What's a mama to do but try to smile and be grateful to be 31 years old, the mother of this boy, the wife of his daddy, and the bride of their Maker. That, and be glad when Daddy gets up and takes the boy with him for the morning so I can nap on the couch. I am rich.
Photo is thanks to my talented SIL.
