My Facebook feed is overrun with snow-related posts. As are the blogs I frequent.
I’m not jealous; I’m not much of a snow bunny myself. Though one snow fall a year is a novelty I enjoy.
Here in the Old Pueblo we’re not so much dealing with snowflakes.
In fact–don’t hate me–the projected high temp Wednesday is, um, well, it’s 75. Sorry. Don’t shoot the messenger.
My little man and I have a date at the park; the swings are calling his name.
I hope he feels up to it.
He spent much of his day today like this.
For the most part, that tuckered out look melts my heart.
But–selfishly–sick days aren’t all bad.
Because those are the days when–even at three years old–nothing makes him as happy as Mommy’s lap.
Will you rock me? He asks. And every time I drop whatever it is I’m doing.
And we go to his room–to the rocker that I insisted was as imperative to his room as a crib.
We rock.
He curls into a question mark under my chin–tight against my chest–and he lets me stroke his hair.
We talk about his choice of the objects in his room {his ceiling fan and closet are among his most favorite}.
We read about old ladies who swallow flies. And wockets in pockets. And Terrible Plops.
For as long as he allows it, we rock.
I breathe deep, and do my best to plant the feel of him there into my heart.
The weight of him.
The curl of his fist.
His pouty bottom lip.
The shutter of my mind’s eye clicks away–fast and furious–but the rest of me just inhales. And rocks some more.
With any luck he’ll come home from the park tomorrow with two shoes chock full of sand.
Tomorrow he’ll be busy with the chasing and the whirling and twirling.
All the more reason to rock today.
For as long as he allows it.
