Cleaning House
Rosie bustled about the large kitchen, setting out plates and cups and utensils. She sang as she worked, pausing to stir the contents of a pot simmering on the stove with baby Tolman comfortably balanced upon her right hip. His pudgy hands reaching for the large wooden spoon and she laughed.
"Not yet, my lad," she said, gently rubbing noses with him. "Your Da's not home yet, nor your brothers and sisters."
The baby continued to reach for the spoon, apparently fascinated.
"Ah, it's wanting to be helping me you are, is that it?" she asked kindly. Setting his wee hands upon her arm, she slowly stirred the pot and pretended it was he doing the work. The baby burbled his joy, as if understanding that he was a very big boy indeed by helping his mother in such a way.
Rosie set the spoon aside then, carrying Tolman to the large trestle table, sat down upon a bench and set him upon her knee. She looked around the kitchen, warm and cozy and soon to be filled with the voices and cries and joyous noise of her family. And she was content.
"Not yet, my lad," she said, gently rubbing noses with him. "Your Da's not home yet, nor your brothers and sisters."
The baby continued to reach for the spoon, apparently fascinated.
"Ah, it's wanting to be helping me you are, is that it?" she asked kindly. Setting his wee hands upon her arm, she slowly stirred the pot and pretended it was he doing the work. The baby burbled his joy, as if understanding that he was a very big boy indeed by helping his mother in such a way.
Rosie set the spoon aside then, carrying Tolman to the large trestle table, sat down upon a bench and set him upon her knee. She looked around the kitchen, warm and cozy and soon to be filled with the voices and cries and joyous noise of her family. And she was content.