I am perversely pleased, waking up at 3am curled inorganically into a toddler bed. The soft sour-sweet milk breath of my son fans my face. His heart beats triple time against mine, even in sleep.
I’ve lost all feeling in my left leg from the knee down and it prickles pins and needles as I flex it awake.
My stomach rumbles & I wonder if it is either too early or too late for barbque…
Earlier that day, studying the cracks in her hand, Belle asked me why our skin was so cracked.
“Did God make us broken that way?” she asked.
I nodded, once, & opened my mouth to explain.
“We’re little,” chimed in Baz. “So he had to use lots of little pieces to put us all together to make one big good thing.”
I kind of love that
Sometimes the simplest most childlike answer is the best…