Mornings are not our favorite time. No matter how much we plan there is always a lost shoe, an errant bit of homework or a dog that’s gone to visit the the neighbor. I always make my kids a satisfying hot breakfast, but no one would call it leisurely. Mornings, in this house, are too often just endured.
I wake the kids up at 7 each day, and then again at 7:05 and by 7:10 I’m trying to not be shrill. They are never late to school, but it is seldom pleasant. I try to make their mornings sweet, but it’s difficult.
This morning Alexander awoke at 6:30 and wanted to take a shower. We lay in bed and listen to him turn the shower on. When did my littlest one become so independent?
I wake my daughter up with only two visits to her bedroom and make my way down the stairs. I need coffee, morning is the enemy.
As I turn the corner on the staircase I feel Alexander next to me and I hear him dragging his left hand across the painted wall.
“Oh Alexander please don’t run your hands on the wall, it gets dirty, that’s what the banister is for.” I moan, defeated before I’ve begun.
“Oops!” he replied.
And then he slipped his right hand into mine. We walked down the stairs, through the living room, dining room and den. He only let go when we in the kitchen and he asked me for an omelet.
I’d have made him the moon and the stars this morning.
Every time his hand slips into mine the world stops for a moment. He trusts me and needs me. It’s an unconscious time when he reaches for me, and I for him. It’s seven years of his hand growing and stretching, yet always fitting in mine. Perfectly.
I trust and need him too.