“The birds are telling me I’m their mommy!”

Birdsong has been described a lot of ways, but I think I like my three-year-old’s the best.

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Awoke to both kids curling up under the covers with me this morning. Who needs coffee, really? That was some bona fide sweetness there. Later in the afternoon, Bekah just curled up in my lap on the couch and we just snuggled. There

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Some days you simply don

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I hear it in the night
playing havoc in the breast
of my youngest
I see it in the day
in the slowed step
of my oldest
I feel it
like a far off drum
beating frantically
in its hunt
for me

Stupid flu.

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Today I was walking along the sidewalk with Rebekah when we passed an empty store. Inside was a short step ladder right next to a very tall step ladder. The rest of the store was empty, save for some trash in the corners. In a way it was very picturesque. As I admired the artistic qualities, my eyes shifted focus and I saw our reflection in the window. Her, sweet and short, holding hands with her tall daddy. We mirrored the ladders beautifully. I thought for a moment of trying to take a picture of it, but knew that a picture would never really do it justice. So I just stood there for another moment, holding her hand.

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I turn the light red kidney beans over in the colander with my fingers as the water rinses them clean. Most are firm and ready. I shut the tap and wait a moment for the water to finish draining through the traffic jam of legumes ’til it reaches the open highway of the sink. I will stir these beans in with the chili beans, meat, tomato sauce, chili pepper, paste, salsa and cumin that make my chili.

As the pot simmers on the stove, I finish the task of going through the baby clothes Amy is packing up. Onesies. Sleepers. Adorably small hoodies. I remember Reed, small and inquisitive, in one of the light blue sleepers, joyful despite terribly chapped little cheeks.

I feel a little pang inside, knowing that in all likelihood, I will not again in this lifetime have a child that small, that open to all the world. It is equal parts sad and relieved. I put a little shirt to my nose and breath it in, and feel low and mean for wanting to keep it when it could have use elsewhere. I fold the clothes back up and place them in the box for another baby to use.

I return to the kitchen to stir the pot once more. A lick of a finger, it is warm and sweet enough for the kids, spicy enough for the grown ups. It’s my recipe. It’s predictable.

Like me.

I kept the sleeper.

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After swimming today, Reed’s in the shower next to mine, humming.

I love that.

It’s one of those things that let you know a child has a song in his heart.

It is also one of those things that makes you wonder where, as an adult, your song has gone. I think I need to start listening closer.

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