I am not a morning person. It takes two cups of coffee and three hours to get me into 'human' mode. My children are morning people. They are high-energy, sunshiny, and loud morning people. This combination makes for very testy starts to our days.
One such morning, the boys were early-rising, crumb-leaving, and non-cooperating, pushing me to my limit. The amount of energy one has to call upon to not yell, to be patient, to still smile and hug and be present—it's sucks you right dry. No amount of coffee was going to save it. Nap time could not come soon enough.
My preschooler went down quietly. The little one, not so much.
Giving up all hope of getting anything done that afternoon, we sat down to play with his cars, zooming and rolling. Suddenly, I saw him whip his head around quickly, and just as fast, he was up and running towards the French doors.
"Hey buddy, where are you going?" He stopped, sat down, and started swiping the floor with his hand. At what? I wonder.
He was trying to catch a stream of sunlight that had come through the sheer curtains. Finally realizing it was futile, he put his head down on the floor, looked right at where the light was coming in, and smiled.
You silly baby bear! It struck me then, that my son was living in the moment. The only way children know how.
Something I seemed to have forgotten, amidst my string of daily to-dos and non-stop swirl of things in my head—article ideas, meal planning, books I'm reading and want to read, the grocery list.
I was zooming at a million miles an hour, and was missing the scenery. I was not catching the sunlight.
And so, I put my head down, next to my baby boy, and let the warmth of the sun settle on my face. For a few minutes, everything else fell by the wayside, and seemed a little smaller, a little less overwhelming.
I was catching the sunlight.
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