A Morning Reverie
The light pouring in our window at 8am this morning felt unwelcome and intrusive. Steve and I went to bed at 3am; we had stayed up late finishing up a small project for our business.
Samuel, who had just finished nursing, lay cooing between us as we tried to bury our faces deeper into our pillows. I reluctantly opened my eyes. Steve, too, had opened his eyes and smiled -- first at Samuel, then at me.
The muted sounds of an awake and content Isaac filtered through our bedroom walls. Isaac often talks to himself while playing, and I occasionally made out a word or two of his despite the layers of insulation between us.
"I like how he says gargabe instead of garbage," I said. "He's a bit dyslexic with his syllables sometimes, but it's really endearing."
The tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star drifted into our room, but with new and different lyrics about gargabe trucks and ducks.
"I like how he makes up songs and sings to himself while he plays," reported Steve.
"Yes," I agreed. "He's a really cute little kid."
"I love our little boy."
"Me too."
Samuel, who had just finished nursing, lay cooing between us as we tried to bury our faces deeper into our pillows. I reluctantly opened my eyes. Steve, too, had opened his eyes and smiled -- first at Samuel, then at me.
The muted sounds of an awake and content Isaac filtered through our bedroom walls. Isaac often talks to himself while playing, and I occasionally made out a word or two of his despite the layers of insulation between us.
"I like how he says gargabe instead of garbage," I said. "He's a bit dyslexic with his syllables sometimes, but it's really endearing."
The tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star drifted into our room, but with new and different lyrics about gargabe trucks and ducks.
"I like how he makes up songs and sings to himself while he plays," reported Steve.
"Yes," I agreed. "He's a really cute little kid."
"I love our little boy."
"Me too."