It’s morning and I’m here. I’m here at the computer and the house is dark and silent – except for the coffee brewing. I told Dan yesterday that if the coffee isn’t brewing, there’s no way I’m getting out of bed early.
I’ve been meaning to do this. I have been meaning to find space that is mine.
I’m weird about writing. Dan will always ask me what I”m working on. Or he’ll tell me “It’s fine! Write!” but then he’ll be sitting on the couch behind me and I just can’t. It’s like I need my own private planet to write on. And I really really don’t like talking about it – whatever it is – until it’s live in the world somewhere. Until then it is between me and my crazy writer head.
Now it’s 6:15 – in 15 minutes everyone will probably be up. Fifteen minutes.
I don’t know what to write right now except that I am here.
And that I’m enjoying the littlest things right now. Maybe it’s because the weather has been so warm and the trees are just starting to bud. There’s that close feeling of the season changing – of promise for what’s next – and the way the warm sun feels on your skin.
The other day my work friend was telling me about her mother in law and their wedding. And I said: “I really understand the way moms are about things like weddings now. It’s just that you love them so much, it’s embarrassing.”
It is a little embarrassing! I asked Dan the other day: “Do you ever feel like we are living with a magical creature?”
“A magical creature?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
What I’ve been thinking about is how every day babies do things. The most simple things. They walk. They laugh. They sleep. They hold a toy up to you. They point to their belly when you say “Where’s your belly?” But for some period of time, the miracle of it all is never lost on you.
When do we all stop being these little miracles? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been walking around and looking people who look troubled or sad or funny and think: They were this totally innocent baby once too. This blank slate. This miracle.
James has been a bit of a snuggle bug lately. And snuggling him is like a drug. I have never wanted so much closeness. Sometimes in the morning, after milk, we’ll lay back on the bed and watch his tranquil turtle and make hand shadows for a while. He makes little coos and we just lie there together.
Now it’s 6:31 and I need to get going. I am already thinking about my little boo. About his drowsy early snuggles. Our quiet dark time for little miracles.