No one told me that there would be tough days, not in the tantrum kind of way, but in the way that your heart remains too heavy for your children. Tough in the way that you feel it difficult to breathe. Tough in the very unique way that in an instant, you can’t phantom them grown and wild–jumping turnstiles and skipping class– and then you can. The tough is inaudible, it isn’t physical, yet it manifests nonetheless.
Last night Oak requested a cuddle, as he has done almost every night this week. I squeezed my body close to his, jotting notes in my brain, saving them for later. For when I blink. For when he’s grown.
-His feet curled across my thigh, his big toe wiggling on my skin.
-In between sipping he would come up from his sippy cup for air, and his breath smelled of sweet milk and strawberry toothpaste.
-His hair stuck straight through the hand-worked floor bed. A few wasps of curls covering his stork bite.
-His palm ran warm and felt small in mine. Still only large enough to grab a few of my fingers. Lightly, he patted my forehead, then my nose, my cheek, and finished on my chin.
– He would close his eyes, then open them wide with a smile accompanying. His newest smile tucks his bottom lip and puckers his top, exposing his large and glorious smile. His eyelashes curled to his lid, and a silent and high-pitched laugh would erupt from his mouth; a failed attempt to keep quiet for his snoozing sister.