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When Love is Simple

Sometimes I just need to stop…to slump on the couch and let my shoulders fall where they will.  To cry for ten seconds  in the direction of the bookshelf where no one will see me or know that mommy cracked because…because whatever I’ve held in has been held too long, and mommy just needs to breathe a real breath, even if it’s staggered.

And then sometimes before I can rouse a clear thought my small son wants to show me the butter in his palm, the butter that started on his bread.  The butter that was saved for last, so that it could be licked like dessert while skipping down the hallway.

And then sometimes the boy with greasy lips who reeks of spearmint from the bathroom spray wants me to stack blocks with him.  Regular colored blocks as high as we can.  “Have I built a port o’ potty?” he asks.  And I say, “no.  Not this time.”  And the two of us place one shaky block upon another while he chatters.

Sometimes, defying expectation, both kids climb in the truck before I can and wait with buckled seat belts–for ten minutes–until I can heft in six bags, a hot mug and a camera I might need later.

And sometimes my small boy, the one who has saved his complaints for another hour and maybe another day, steps over my camera completely as he jumps out of the truck when the back door opens—and with his Thomas back pack scraping the pavement with one wheel, snatches my right hand with his left and walks with me to class.  He and I.

Bursting with love of the simplest kind.

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