Today we practiced speaking with love and forgiveness, again.
I wrote for a little while after you went to bed. I found a comforting podcast by some of my favorite bloggers and essayists. I drank tea in bed while I enjoyed both.
We shared breakfast from the same plate, even tried to sit in the same chair but my belly is too big to let us be comfortable that way. We played a silly nuzzle-wuzzle game, we colored together, we hugged after butting heads for the twentieth time, we snuggled while reading books, and we napped together on the couch for longer than I thought we could because (again) my belly is so big.
You talked to baby brother without prompting. You helped me unpack baby clothes, fill the laundry, and empty the dishwasher. You let me comfort you when bonked and again when you felt upset because I denied you something. You wanted your own space sometimes and others you wanted to be so close and every day I want to drink you in while I still have only you. Your baby brother feels strong inside me, too. I cannot believe how big my heart will become to love you both when I already feel it bursting.
I got to sing you to sleep at naptime, a song that you used to request all the time. I counted a small “win” every time I drew a smile out of you, especially when you asked me to come back and play more of the air puffing game on the floor. My body is so worn out but your big eyes and wide smile and glee at a little cause-and-effect made me forget.
By the end of today, my heart and brain felt sapped, too, but you let me kiss you again before you fell asleep and let me comfort you after you got mad at me for leaving the room too soon. Those little treasures will buoy me toward tomorrow, when I will be back to play some more. How I love you, little bug. Rest well.