Bronzing a memory

I dare something brave. Blogging on a Sunday morning with no backup and two toddlers toddling.* We have enjoyed a happy and charmed morning AND a long one since the little tykes squawked reveille at 0500. They've been in a particularly good mood despite a fractured night's sleep, super quick-forming snot tusks, and raspy coughs. I've miraculously gotten through nearly 2 cups of coffee and my e-mail with only the minor distraction of keeping Solomon from using Cici's head as a drum or changing a little toxic waste out of a diaper.

I have a friend who is really good about putting in writing the moments and antics that define the days of her kids' childhood. I strive to be more like her... if only to document the evolution of these incredible little personalities I have the privilege to get to know. Last night held a memory I'd like to keep always, to pull out when the kids are older, to remember these beautiful baby-ish days, to heal after a fight or just to remember how perfect loving them feels.

I had a moment in the middle of the night where I was a better version of myself, and the experience of being a mom was saturated with happy. At 2am. Like I said, a better version of myself. And I want to remember it always, as raw and beautiful and funny and perfect as it was.

We waved goodbye to Patrick yesterday as he drove back to Kansas City in order to catch an early flight out to Haiti this morning. As much as I wanted to be the brave, solid-as-a-rock wife, I couldn't help the tears. Partly it was watching my toddler-tag-team-parter drive off into the sunset leaving me suddenly out numbered in the parent-to-toddler ratio; mostly it was because he was going to Haiti without me. Without us. The reality of what has changed for us hit, and I didn't like it one bit.

The kids were clingier last night than normal... I attributed it to feeling anxious over separation. Or maybe they were tuning in to my own anxiety. Especially Solomon who is a full-on Daddy's boy and often wakes in the night crying for "Dad-dad" until his Super Papa finds him and snuggles him. No one else will do. So I anticipated a difficult night. Solomon has never been a very sound sleeper and consistently gets up several times a night no matter what "healthy sleep" strategy we try. So at midnight when my little boy sat up in the darkness and called out for his dad in his heart-broken, raspy voice, tears running rivers down the rounds of his cheeks, I could only sympathize. Instead of getting my feelings hurt that it wasn't me he wanted, I gave him a little space. Cici was up shortly with all the racket, so we three beings padded through my parents' dark house. Solomon instantly quieted in the search, his pudgy hand in mine leading the way. One room after another I lit, noted it was empty, and darkened the lights again. After searching the whole house for the Elusive Daddy Wonderful, Solomon seemed to understand that I wasn't keeping him from his favorite snuggler, and a truce was waged.

Back in bed, my children snuggled on either side of me, and I settled into one of the dreamier moments of motherhood---the time when you stop moving, stop problem-solving, stop worrying, stop the"nos!" and the "watch out's!" and just simply soak in the little lives that you are lucky enough to hold.

Neither sleepy despite a world that snored and dreamed around us, Solomon and Valancia commenced in happy baby chatter. I imagined they were telling me about the dreams they just had or telling each other secrets they knew mommy couldn't decipher. Rather than their usually tease-and-screech interactions, Valancia giggled as Solomon poked her cheek; Solomon held back when Valancia reached for his hand across my chest. Soon the farm dogs started barking at coyotes howling in the distance, and Solomon started barking along with them in his raspy "ooh-ooh" imitation of a woof. A few seconds later Cici threw in a moo. 'Cause a guard cow is just what you need on a night like that. Off you go coyotes.

They eventually quieted down, but certainly didn't settle into sleep. Solomon put his head on my shoulder and played with strands of my hair, then grabbed my nose in his fist and gave my head a shake. Cici entertained herself thoroughly by rocking her head back and forth recreating the suction sound made by her chubby cheek pulling away from the skin on my chest. She laughed endlessly at her new trick. Me too. Good thing I'm not one of those bony hard body ladies--oh the free entertainment we would have been deprived.

Cici finally threw in the towel at 1am after her delicate hands stopped exploring my face, fingers attempting to go spelunking in my mouth. Her body relaxed and breathing fell into that beautiful deep rhythm of sleep. Solomon, on the other hand, had another hour in him. That was ok. Rather than sighing out of exhaustion, throwing up my hands in "what-are-we-going-to-do-with-this-sleepless-child!" exasperation that often defines our reaction to our middle-of-the-night, not-soon-to-be-snoozing rendezvouses, this better version of my self simply enjoyed my cuddly, funny, sweet-tempered night-owl of a boy knowing such moments with him are fast fleeting as he grows and changes every day.

I rained kisses down on his round face, landing them on his forehead, cheeks (oh the cheeks), eyelids, tip of the nose, corner of the mouth, fold of the neck. He laughed an open-mouth laughed. When I stopped, he'd lean his head in for more. Eventually the kisses made him sleepy, and somewhere between laughing and smooching, we both fell asleep.

Despite colds, and coughs and runny noses today for the three of us, it will be a good day. Today is a lazy Sunday and I don't yet have a job that will demands large portions of daylight away from my kids, I'm not yet immersed in the over-scheduled race that sometimes feels like life in America. I'm just a mom with two incredible children on a farm with hours ahead of us to just be. And the gift of that does not elude me today.

Today, I soak it in.

*It is no longer Sunday morning as I post this. But of course.