Sometimes we have hard days. Sometimes our voices rise higher than I’d like. Sometimes I take a long shower as soon as my husband gets in the door and takes his boots off. Sometimes 4 year olds are hard. Sometimes 31 year olds are really hard. Sometimes I am plagued by doubt.
The other day O wanted to stay on the couch at bedtime, while B played video games. I allowed it. After he fell asleep, B carried his limp body, heavy with sleep, up the stairs and to the bathroom. I heard a small giggle from the other room. Then a bigger giggle. B asked him if he was okay. O kept giggling. I lead him to his double bed (that seemed so small when it was still ours, and now seems so huge with his tiny limbs curled up in the middle).
“Are you awake or asleep?” I asked. His eyes were open, but not really.
The giggling continued. That was a week ago.
A few minutes ago, he woke up to go to the bathroom. I met him there to ensure he made it in and back to bed. A quiet guide. (One day I’ll let him in on how many times I’ve seen him narrowly escape bonking his head off the corner of the bathroom counter.) I pulled his blanket up to his chin. His eyes, again, open but not really. I smiled. He giggled and giggled and giggled.
Sometimes we have hard days. Most days we don’t.