In the whirlwind of our day there is this moment of absolute bliss created after Abigail wakes up from her nap. It begins with a tiny finger pointing. I lift her out of the crib and she scurries to the bookshelf. She grabs a book and hands it over. Sometimes we sit right there on the floor in front of the bookcase, but most of the time we cuddle in the rocking chair and enjoy a book or two. We read hapharzardly — a page here and there. We savor the endpapers and meander through stories; I just love it. A secret snuggle time perfect for sharing one of my favorite things.
Today she grabbed her book and when I tried to sit down next to her she put her hand up for me to stop. I had to giggle. “No Mommy, I can do it by myself,” she seemed to say. I grabbed the camera and sat on the ottoman watching her pile her little nest of blankets and lovies around her. Then she read in that sweet baby babble that had me hanging on every word.
When she was finished she scooted out of the chair, put her books back on the shelf, and turned off her sound machine. And it all felt so, mature. Then she turned the sound machine back on. And off. And on. And blasting. Phew! So not mature.
I scooped her up football style and carried her wiggling and giggling down the stairs. Bliss.
Then Hank walked around the corner with a left eye that was completely swollen shut. Of course. A dose of reality for me and a dose of steroids for Hank.