There are things in our home my husband handles that I will not. There are things he offers our family that I cannot. He possesses qualities I do not have. In the coparenting equation, we complete one another. That said, I am the parent who carries a visceral, physical connection to our children. I am the one who feels their joy on my skin and their pain in my bones. A superpower or a curse, I cannot be sure; an honor, regardless.
Riddle me this — why do the plants in my hospital absolutely thrive without attention or fresh air, growing well beyond eight feet toward the artificial lights in the ceiling… while my spoiled, well-soiled, perfectly-humidified houseplant collection gives me grief for watering on the wrong day?
Chris watched me get ready for bed last night, moderately intrigued at the notion of catching a glimpse of my skin, only to exclaim Oh, never mind; you’ve got a whole other outfit on under there. I guess he’s picked up on my recent fashion foray. It involves lots of layering.
Wednesdays are long. We barely connect and rarely get everything done by bedtime. But the baby recently learned to make açaí bowls for the family; it’s her job and her joy to make dinner every Wednesday. Her servant’s heart makes me smile out loud.
When I expressed interest today in getting to know someone in town a bit better, I was told that they are a scarred human.
Aren’t we all.
A boy in my class told me he could see my aura… he said it was half dark and dull, and half light purple.
– Isaiah Jane, age ten
I do not know when we’ll all see each other again, but this time together was everything I could have possibly wanted and needed. This past week was proof that hopes and dreams come true.
