That time my husband almost lost his thumb.

I had come up from the dock to the cottage for a good reason that escapes me now.

Now that I think back.  

My 4.5 year old son trailed behind me.

As soon as we walked in my husband came at me.

"Get Scott! Get Cathy!  It's bad.  It's bad."  There was my pale, sweating, bleeding husband.  Holding his thumb that from a short distance with my hazy un-prescripted vision looked .... squashed.  And bloody.

And I?  Don't do well with blood.

It actually, irrationally, makes me feel like I could keel over and die.  My husband obviously knows this about me since he didn't outright show me.  And I thank the heavens and all that is good and holy in this world that in all his pain and suffering he refrained from that.

I ran to the door that I'd just come from.  I knew where Cathy was.  I didn't know where Scott was.  The owners of the cottage.

"Cathy!  CATHY!"

She turned and with the urgent panic in my voice ran up the many stairs at warp speed yelling, "The kids? The kids?!!"

"John!"

Scott appeared and Cathy was there starting calling out loudly, one to two word sentences in a strangely composed yet manic tone.

Towel!  (Convenient WHITE hand towel tossed at John.)

Ice! Ice!  I numbly yet quickly went to grab cubes of ice from the freezer.  But she took over and threw the whole drawer at me.  Take it!

I took and ran over to my husband.

Call 911!  That was Scott.

...911...911....911...

The numbers echoed disbelievingly in my mind.

911?  I remember that thought of...911?  Really?  This was really bad.  I had no idea.

"Daddy...what happened to your thumb?  What happened?"  My sweet little boy kept asking amongst the chaos.  I'm still not sure he got an answer.

Shoes, get her shoes!  (my shoes were very important to Cathy though in retrospect a shirt to cover my bikini clad body would've been nice too!)

All humour aside we were out of the house in less than 2 minutes with Scott barreling down gravel cottage roads at an obscene pace.

(At the hospital he bemoaned the fact that he missed his calling as a Doctor which I can't say I disagree with since he took better care of John than the doctors, the nurses and me combined.  Frankly, he would've been a kick ass race car driver too if you ask me.)

During the insane ride from hell I felt utterly helpless to my husband's pain.

I liken it to how he must have felt during the labour I went through with my son's.  Though my pain was not for naught.  The two separate pains, really, cannot be compared.  But the feeling of not being able to help your loved one who is obviously is in an excruciating amount of pain must have some parallels.

John was beside me requesting ice.

So I crushed cubes of ice with my teeth and fed them to my husband.

His thumb was hanging by an artery.  I couldn't have him die of choking on an ice cube now could I?

With what seemed like so many minutes yet seconds at the same time we met up with the ambulance on its way to pick up my husband.  We hopped out quickly and they asked their questions, did what they do and said to follow them to the hospital.  There were no lights, no hoopla, no sirens.   No speed.  (that was a good sign Scott reassured me). Though at one point at a stop sign there was a long pause with what looked like way too much movement.  It made my stomach lurch in panic and worry.

*******************************************************************************

Back at the cottage the kids ran circles around the adults as I can so imagine.  Their emotions contrasting deeply from the children's playing.

Subdued was the word of that day.

Until they decided that's it! My husband? He would be keeping his thumb.  And then they may have partaken in some (responsible of-course) imbibing.

*******************************************************************************

Back at the hospital...things were looking grim for John's thumb.  The doctor seemed to make a decision on the spot after looking at it early on that it was pretty much un-salvageable.  The bone was crushed above the base of the thumb nail.  The artery and nerve on the left side of his right thumb were severed from the very, very, very heavy trap door slamming down on it.  The nerve - that John mistook for bone - was completely exposed.  The tip of his thumb was basically hanging by a thread.

I know.  Shudder.

Vomit.

There are pictures.  I have not seen them.

And I never will.

That is a promise.

*******************************************************************************

At this point, we'd been at the hospital for a couple of hours.  John had undergone far too many needles for his liking and had many nurses coming in to check out the awesomeness of his wound. I felt close to barfing every second we were there.  And Scott?  He was topless.  And cold.  Because he was ever the gentleman and gave me his t-shirt.

They found him a hospital gown and I'm sure he felt warmer though perhaps a bit silly.  Considering the patient, my husband, wasn't even wearing one.

*******************************************************************************

A couple more hours later: The good doctor conferred by telephone with a hand plastic surgeon at another hospital over John's x-ray's to determine what to do with it (I'm not going to pretend I have all the great specific medical details since I felt like hurling the whole time we were there) they decided to simply stitch it up and see how it goes.  (there's video of that too - *puke* - that I will never see)

*******************************************************************************

Since then we've been dealing with doctor's appointments and many phone calls to doctor's offices, plastic surgeon's and hospitals to make sure this thumb is here to stay.

I've learned a lot from this experience.

My husband is one tough Mothertrucker....and I?  Am not.

Also?  It really sucks that I have to do all the poopy diaper changes.  And all the dishes.

And all of pretty much all of everything else.

(I joke, I joke.  I kid, I kid)

Okay.  Not really.  It really does suck.

But not as much as losing a thumb would.

Feels like Home

The dinner hour did not go well.  Which is pretty typical in a household of little ones.  There was some shouting, button pushing, getting up from the table without excusing and lots of crying from my eldest.

This was all because of children not wanting to eat.  *sigh*  Isn't that always the battle?

I'm not really into food pushing.  I figure they'll eat when they're hungry and if they don't eat at dinner and they get hungry just before bed - always just before bed, it's the ultimate stall tactic - they can have the dinner they didn't eat and / or some fruit.

I try to encourage eating bananas with a glass of milk because they have tryptophan in them.  The same chemical found in turkey that makes one oh so sleepy after a big meal...oh?  Maybe you didn't know that?  Well.  You are welcome.

So anyway.  I'm not into food pushing.  My husband though?  He's a "3 more bites" and after the 3 bites there must be 3 more kinda Dad.  It's the rare issue we don't really see eye to eye with.  After spending all the live long day with my boys I simply do not have the energy for food pushing.  (and I absolutely one thousand percent refuse to make separate meals for my kids).  Besides that, my boys are a combined weight of almost 80 lbs.  For a 2 and a 4 year old that's a pretty healthy weight so it's not like they're going to wilt away to nothing if they miss a meal.

On the dinner hour went and I just tucked into my dinner silently, trying to pretend the small war that waged around me wasn't happening.

After the chaos of dinner my husband headed upstairs in a slight huff with the littlest and I stayed down in the kitchen cleaning up while my eldest amused himself.

Then we danced with all of his 43 pound self all up in my arms.

And then.  Then, the fateful statement was made by my 4 yr old.

"I'm hungry."

I sighed heavily and did my motherly duty of finger waving about the reason why he was now hungry as I pulled out the fruit tray, gave him a fork and sat down beside him at the table.

Music was playing as it always does in our home.  It was a song that made my heart nostalgic.  It reminded me of the early dating days with my husband.

Somethin' in your eyes, makes me wanna lose myself
Makes me wanna lose myself, in your arms
There's somethin' in your voice, makes my heart beat fast
Hope this feeling lasts, the rest of my life

While the song played and my son munched away on his fruit I let my mind go to a place that I hadn't visited in a long, long while....

I was getting ready in my tiny bedroom with my Caboodles make-up holder set up in front of me (yes, I realize - seriously aging myself here) applying mascara and blush, curling my hair.  He was to pick me up at my very old little attic apartment any minute now.  "Feels Like Home" was blaring on my really low budget ghetto blaster. (again with the aging myself)  I - of-course - was singing along at the top of my lungs - nothing unusual for me - when he walked into my apartment because he probably knew I wouldn't be able hear his knock.  

And there he was filling in bedroom door.  And there I was sitting with a blush brush to my cheek.  Feeling only slightly embarrassed because he just heard me singing like I  really believed I was Chantal Kreviazuk.  Because even though we'd only been dating a very, very short while I knew he was the one.  

I felt like I'd known him my whole life.  


We seemed to 'get' each other right from the start.  


He felt like home to me. 

I was brought to the present when Adrian asked me a question..."What's this song called?"

"It's called Feels like Home."

And with that he climbed into my lap and curled up there with his eyes on mine as the words, 'And if you knew how happy you are making me, I never thought that I'd love anyone so much' sang on in the background.

My eyes welled up as they always do when I have these moments of stillness and wonder with my children.  I was never an overly sentimental or emotional person before my babies were born.  And then.  They were born.  And now.  I cry all.the.time.

We listened to the rest of the song in silence as Adrian sat cocooned in my lap, my cheek against his curls, my fingers lightly tickling his back - his comfort.  My comfort.  I took every ounce of his four year old preciousness in.

Because despite the tears and drama at the dinner hour and all the stress and chaos in between, this is what home truly does feel like.


For wherever my family is, there is my home.

First Disappointment

He picked out the Candy Push Pop after great thought.  The raspberry blueberry flavour would taste great he decided.  He held it close to his body, at times pulling it away and admiring that Candy Push Pop with a revere like I would admire a gorgeous piece of artwork.  He started to pull away the plastic at one point, unable to contain his excitement - it was too much to wait! - his first Candy Push Pop!  This was a Big Deal! - until I reminded him as we strolled - all too slowly for him - around the grocery store, that I had to pay for it first.

"Can you make sure she gives it to me and doesn't put it in the bag Mumma?"

"Of-course."

As the cashier rang through our items my son finished what he had so eagerly begun earlier...the tearing of the clear plastic wrapper.  The anticipatory unveiling of the delicious sugary goodness that makes the back of your cheeks tingle with tartness and the tongue an alarming shade of blue.

A cry rose up from his belly, so sharp with sadness that I thought he had seriously harmed himself.

"It's brrroooookennn!"

Sure enough the Candy Push Pop was broken.  Edible enough though a bit crumbly.  There was no push to the pop if you know anything about Candy Push Pop's.

He cried.  He sobbed.  And sobbed.

I could have easily appeased him and avoided the somewhat embarrassing but not uncommon scene that was occurring in front of me by simply buying him another one. Even though they were at the other end of the grocery store.  I think about it now, weeks after it happened and wonder if I did the right thing.  No good, loving parent likes seeing their child in such distress be it a skinned knee or broken candy.

Then again, disappointment?  It's part of life.

As I held him close and kissed his face streaming with salty tears I gave this intense reaction, this belly deep feeling of despair a name...and though it didn't stop the tears or the profound despair he felt, a of couple weeks later when I bought him another similar candy he unwrapped it and exclaimed, "It's not broken this time!  I'm not disappointed!"

I knew that maybe?  Maybe I did something right.

Or quite possibly he'll remember that dreadful feeling of let down for the rest of his life.  And it will ultimately come back to bite me in the ass one day when brings it up (once again) during a family Christmas Dinner telling the terrible, no good awful story of the broken Candy Push Pop demanding with dramatic false annoyance, "Why didn't you just buy me another damn Push Pop Mom?  Geez!"  He practically needs therapy!

I'll laugh lightly as I walk by him setting down another platter of sliced turkey, then ruffle his sandy curls as I return to my seat next to him and advise him with wise humour that it was his first 'life lesson' in disappointment.  (And his father will be quick to tell him to "watch your mouth around your Mother, son.")

For that Candy Push Pop disappointment most definitely won't be his last let down in life.

As much as this Mother's Heart wishes it was.

Hanging out at Yeah Write!

Lovelinked

Once again it was just the three of us.  My boys and I.

The evening fun went on a little too long and they were over tired.  There was a lot of whining and crying and refusal of their own beds.

So.

Up they scrambled onto our large bed...it was so past their bed times even the summer sky was dimmed with a mere slash of moon light.

The room was dark.  The comforter was cozy.  The fan whirred.

I lay down between them.  We began with our heads on the same pillow, their heads tilted toward mine.

Finley's little hand reached for mine and our fingers entwined as my other hand tickled Adrian's back.

My arms were criss-crossed against my chest to meet their unspoken requests.

Adrian moved his head toward the comfort of my belly, where he had begun his life over 5 years ago.

My little one rolled over top of me to the same side as his brother amongst a small protest. He rested his head on the place where the centre of my love lives, huge, ever growing and unstoppable.  His legs that were becoming less chubby and more big boyish lay over top of his big brother's now lean, muscular ones.

And there we remained.

How blessed I felt.

A love linked triangle of the sweetest kind.

At a Loss

He was about 7 years old with his front yard full of play guns that looked all too real.  He was playing them by himself.

I felt sick to my stomach.

What kind of child plays with toy guns?!  What kind of parents buy that many play guns for their child???!!  I remember whispering to my neighbour with my judgy pants on about the parents and child...is that normal kid play?  She laughed at my terrified expression and shook her head - maybe it was?  Maybe it wasn't?

She has two daughters...of-course she didn't know.

My toddler at the time made his way over towards him but not before I swooped him up with an "Oh no you don't!"

He protested.  I was horrified.

But I stuck to my guns.  So to speak.

******************************************************************************************

I buckled him into his seat and asked him how his day at pre-school was.  What did he play?  Who did he play with?  What did he learn?

"I played guns with Andrew!"

My stomach turned violently.

"You played what?"  I didn't want to hear the words again...the question was blurted out in shock.

"We played guns!  With sticks!"

"Oh...so you were playing a stick game."  I said to brightly.  Too forcefully.  The word guns coming out of an innocent 3 year old little boy's mouth was too much for me.  We didn't have toy guns in our home then.  We still don't except for a brightly coloured water gun that was given to him by a friend this summer.  

He's now 4.5 and my littlest is now 2 almost 3.

The shoot you down your dead games?  They happen anyway.

But that doesn't mean I'm going to go out and buy my sons' a toy gun...because oh well - they play guns with wooden spoons anyway.

Especially not now.  After all the major horrific tragedies occurring too often in neighbourhood cities.

When family bbq's, an afternoon trip to the mall and a night out to the movies turn into a person's worst nightmare?  Something has got to give.


I was at a movie theatre YESTERDAY WITH BOTH MY SONS.

This is not the world I want to raise my babies in.  It's consumed with the terrifying, the ugly and the violent.  The news - they say - is covering more and more of these 'events' - it's just fear mongering - the crime rates?   They're on the decline.

That's not reassuring to me right now!!!!!  These nightmares are actually happening.  


And it's insane.

I realize the answer is not to boycott gun toys - although that's not a bad idea in my opinion at this point in time - I just wish I knew what the answer was.

I'm at a loss feeling entirely helpless, anxious and sad.

The Dog Days aren't Over...thankfully

I swiftly swung him up onto my hip and I ran under the large arc of the sprinkler with him heavy in my arms.  There were squeals.  More from me then him.  The water that speckled against my sun warmed skin was very cold.

The day began with heavy air and a searing sun...and just kept getting hotter.  So we filled up the kiddie pool.  

Other than barenaked baby bums, baby buddha bellies come in a close
second to adorableness.  Or edibleness. 

I submerged myself in the kiddie pool much to the delight of my not quite 3 year old son.  He had other, more amusing ways on how to cool down in the water.

When he announced he was 'hummy' we made out way into the cool air of our home and I made up a plate of 'stuff'.  Kolbassa, crackers, olives, cheese, gherkins, hummus, cherry tomatoes and cucumbers.  

We emerged back into the sultry summer air and made our way under the newly erected gazebo that offered the mercy of shade.  I set the white plate scattered with green, red, beige and orange morsels down on the glass table top.

It was a clothing optional lunch, I observed, as he climbed onto the chair next to me with nary a stitch of clothing.  

We sat side by side, the only sound was of crunching crackers, the hum of the air conditioner behind us and the occasional car in the distance.  

It was quiet.  

Peaceful.  

I hadn't heard quiet in a long, long time.  

I hadn't the time to feel peace in a long, long while either.

As I sat in the peace and quiet with my little one beside me I noticed even the birds were silent save for the occasional harsh call of a red winged black bird.  

I watched my son as he ate.  

He ate half an olive and put it back.  Then carefully chose another olive.  Took a bite.  And put it back.  "I don't yike olives..."  Picked up another one.  Took a bite.  Nodded almost imperceptibly, "I yike olive."  I could relate to the love/hate relationship with olives.  It was so obvious to me at that moment that he is my son.

I ate the left over halves of olives.  Because I hate waste.  And isn't that just what all mothers do?

"I'm a pirate!"  He had placed a wheat thin over his eye.  I laughed.  Loudly at the unexpected humour.  He always surprises me with his left-field comicalness.  

He handed me a cracker, "You a pirate too."

And when a 2 year old hands you a cracker and tells you to be a pirate?  

You become a pirate.

"Arrrr matey!"  

Then he made me a cracker and cheese sandwich (probably with the same cracker that was all up in his eyelashes) and handed it over to me with some good advice, "Don't choke".  

I heeded his advice.  And ate that eyelash cheese and cracker sandwich with gusto.

And it was the most delicious cheese and cracker sandwich that I ever did taste.  

He Chose a Ring

She pulled out a box of trinkets and we awaited my eldest son's choice.

His four year old little boy hand hovered over the plastic animals, little girls barrets and plastic rings with Disney princesses on them.

It was not long before his fingers scooped up a ring with Princess Tiana's face on it.

I blurted out almost immediately, "Are you sure that's really what you want?  A ring?"  As soon as I said those words I wished I could slap them back into my mouth.  For if tables were turned and I had a little girl who chose a hot wheels car?  I would be proud, thinking I was doing a wonderful job raising my girl without societies stifling ideas of what girls or boys 'should' or 'should not' be playing with.  Because a girl that loves to play with cars?  Is pretty badass.  I loved to play with cars when I was a little girl...actually I still do thanks to having boys.

"Yes."  He nodded emphatically.  His face had that serious look of definite decision.  So that was that.  I paid for our purchases and he wore that Princess Tiana ring proudly on the ride back home.  I could see him in the rear view mirror holding it up, admiring it like I did my new engagement ring 7 years ago.

My mind went into overload as it does when I drive...or walk...or sit...or read...or listen to music.  I really disliked that part of my mind that was rampant with these double standards.  It became uncomfortably clear to me that society had swayed me in a way I didn't wish to be swayed.  In a way I never thought I could be swayed. Sure, wear pink!  Purple!  Play with dolls!  Dress in princess costumes!  He's done all of those things without it bothering me before.  But when I second guessed his toy of choice...it made me realize I still had a ways to go.  I'm still learning about all of this...I'm relatively new at this parenthood thing.  Although that feeling probably never does go away.  Maybe?  Parenthood is definitely a work in progress...a constant evolution of revelations.

Did it matter that he was wearing a princess ring?  That he loved it and was going to probably show it to all of his friends in the neighbourhood?  Well.  I guess that was what bothered me the most.  Other kids reactions...other boys reactions.  It was the fact that he was choosing something out of the 'norm' for a boy to choose.  And I couldn't bear to see him teased.

As I watched him in the rear view mirror, so content with his newest costume addition a realization hit me like a large stone to my chest. I won't always be there to protect his feelings.  I can't always be there to protect his heart.  He will be starting JK in the fall and experiencing an entirely different world.  As much as we always wish for our children to be clothed with our deflective armour it's not a reality.  Life is not always happy go lucky, there are disappointments, bullies, messy emotions...all that and then some.

But at that moment he was one happy boy.

And ultimately that's all that truly matters in my children's life.

Their happiness.

Titmouse what?

Dinner was in the oven and we were waiting for John to arrive home from work.

Britney Spear's "Til the World Ends" was blaring and Finley was in his happy place dancing like the sumo wrestler he believes he is even though he has no idea what a sumo wrestler is.

Adrian was also dancing around...though his dancing is more like a cross between gymnastics and spastic Elaine from Seinfeld moves.

Then he started chanting.

Something that sounded an awful lot like "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" but I couldn't quite be sure because of the Britney concert happening in my living room and my littlest quite honestly believing he was one of her back up dancers.  Sumo wrestler style back up dancer.

"What did you say?" I yelled sternly over the music.  I could have turned it down easily enough but I hate when my music is interrupted and frankly I have a (now) not so secret love for that song.

He came over and yelled in my ear, "TIT!  I said TIT!"  I know he was actually saying the "S" word just to see if I would catch him at it - he's a bit of a button pusher to say the least.  Also? He obviously hadn't heard the word 'tit' before and had no idea what he was referring to.

"That's not a nice word Adrian.  Please don't repeat that again."

"What tit?  Tit's a great word!"  Clearly all boy here.

"No. No it isn't.  Titmouse maybe.  But not tit."

Really?! Did that sentence really just come out of my mouth?!

Oh yes.  Yes it did.

File this under the things you never thought you would say until you became a Mother.

(Truth be told I had no idea what a titmouse even was...that is until I googled it...I actually thought it was related to the mouse family.  FYI - It is not.)

This is a Titmouse.  It's a BIRD!

Wherein I realize my Mother is no typical Grandmummy

As I walked up the driveway hands full of groceries I noticed something that wasn't there before.  Something that need not be there.  An unusual object.  Something I knew had to do with my Mum's (otherwise known to my sons' as Gaga) visit.

I walked into the kitchen to find her and Finley peacefully having a snack of peanuts and the usual Grandma treats that always come along with her.  They had been to the park for the past hour and a half together.  Enjoying the beautiful sun and fresh air.

A regular day out as Gaga and Youngest Grandson.

Except not really.  Nothing is ever entirely regular when it comes to my Mum.  She is referred to as Gaga after all.  (a result of my eldest not being able to pronounce Grandma at the age of 18 months)

That item I noted sitting on our driveway?

Was a walker.

And though my Mother may be a Grandmother, a walker using Grandmother she will (hopefully) never be.

She had found this walker at the park - no one was around - so she decided to take my littlest for a cruise around the park in it...up the hill, down the hill and around the bend and then proceeded to give him a ride all the way home with him perched on top of it.  Which happens to be over 2 blocks away!  Can you picture it now?  Is there something a little unusual, with this image?

It is so entirely something only my Mother would do.  Quirky, funny.  Totally original.

Now I need to somehow track down that poor person who's without their walker - surely it was stolen right?  No one goes to the park with a walker and miraculously leaves without one...

(It's hiding in my garage for now.  Just in case someone is out scoping the area for their stolen walker - I would hate to be accused of such a crime!)

My Mum continued to zoom him around our streets on this in front of the neighbours
 insisting he "hold on tight now!"

Donut Delight

I debated taking my little one to a coffee shop for a treat before picking up his brother from his morning activities.  Only because I feared being tattled on by my two year old son.  Which would result in endless demands and screeching from my four year old for his own donut and/or ginger molasses cookie grinding me down to an irritated, exhausted pulp of a human being.

In the end the rare one on one time spent with my little one won out.  How could I resist this face?

I mean really.  He's more scrumptious than a double chocolate, double
glazed Boston Cream donut...with extra custard filling.
(That donut does not exist.  But it sure should.)

We arrived at Tim Horton's and since he'd never had a choice all on his own - OMG! His first whole entire donut to himself - no sharing or compromising required! - he automatically chose his brother's favourite.

Mint chocolate glaze.

Generally speaking, I love mint chocolate anything.  Actually pretty much anything to do with chocolate is two thumbs up in my books. But these mint chocolate donuts?  Hideous.  I persuaded him to choose a plain chocolate glazed instead.

Which had nothing to do with my love for them.  Not at all.

He held tight to that brown paper bag with the chocolate confectionery goodness in it and proceeded to choose our table. I slid into the seat across from him.

He immediately (of-course) unwrapped the treat with relish and held it in both of his two year old chubbalicious hands.  I didn't bother to tease him about me eating some of it...I do this occasionally and it never ends well.  Small child of mine takes after his Mother when it comes to sharing food.  Meaning he doesn't.  And not just because he's two and two year olds claim anything they lay their eyes on to be theirs.  He's really quite great at sharing anything else.  His toys, his bike, his books.  But food?  Doesn't deal well...(as I hide my face in shame because he got this trait from me.)

"Mumma I share with you?" without missing a beat he broke the donut in unequal halves and offered me the larger half.

Of-course my heart went mushy and I got unreasonably and irrationally emotional.

Turns out you should probably give your child the benefit of the doubt...they tend to surprise you in the most delightful ways sometimes.

And your darn right I took half.

But I let him have the bigger one.

The Peach and the Bird

My boys are like any other brothers together.  They play, they bicker, they wrestle, they love.

When I overhear them playing it's usually Spiderman verses the Green Goblin.  Sometimes it's the 'red Spiderman against black Spiderman'.  They also play hide and seek, cars and dance to music together.  But sometimes...sometimes what they play is just too random, funny and bizarre for this 34 year old's Motherbrain to wrap my head around.

These are the moments I'd love to curl up in their little boy brains and see how it really ticks...

*******************************************************************************

"Finley!  Do you want to play 'The Bird Eats the Peach?'"  They were bouncing around on our king bed while I tided up the chaotic mess of papers, jewelry and coins on our dresser.

"Yeah!"  Being the little brother who looks up to his big brother like he's his whole world, the answer is always affirmative.

They faced each other crouched down, the inner sole's of their right feet touching.

Adrian began the chant alternating touching the top of Finley's foot and his own.

"Goat, goat.  Let the story begin."

Did he just mention goats you ask?  Oh yes.  Yes he did.


They split up to opposite ends of the big bed. Finley curled up on his feet with his hands underneath his knees and his chin tucked in - like a peach I'm assuming - Adrian was the bird.

"Oooo...this looks like a good one!" Adrian exclaims! He attempts to pick Finley up and they both fall over with a bounce to the mattress.

"Let's play again!  Finley you're the bird now."

And the game began again.  This time with Adrian in the curled up 'peach position.'

Before the Chaos of the Day Begins

Just before the start of the day's chaos consisting of demands for separate dishes for breakfast; Cheerios and water every morning for my little one and waffles and juice for my eldest...

Before requests for specific sippy cups (because didn't you know?  Beverages taste different depending of the colour of cup it's drank from)...

Before the exasperating brotherly bickering of 'he's looking at me funny!' and 'don't make that sound!' and 'he's touching my foot!'...

Before my first snappy irritable response to their fighting, before the pile of dishes begins, before the dog whines to be let out and barks incessantly to be let back in minutes later, before the sounds of Scooby Doo from the television and the pounding of little feet running laps around the house, before diapers are in need to be changed...

Before the general demands of my day begin...the dawn rises and I hear the sound of small feet pattering closer from across the hall, seconds later my eldest clambers quietly into our bed and curls in gently next to me.  A lower case s to my Upper Case one.  My hand reaches around and tucks into his middle and we lie together quietly just like we did when he was a swaddled newborn during the nights he couldn't settle.

 I kiss the back of curly head and ask him how his sleep was.

"Good."  His voice is still soft and sleepy.  He is a boy of few words, especially in the morning.

This is our morning ritual.   And like every ritual, I take great comfort in it.

I know these sweet mornings are numbered.  He will be starting school this fall.   When the morning will abruptly start with the discomfort of an alarm clock sounding and not always the gentle delicious warmth of my son's little body curled into mine.

My 3 Little Birds - MOMents