A warm, sunny morning. A Paul Simon song on in the background while my husband makes coffee and I get the kiddo his breakfast. All of us miraculously rested for once from a good night of sleep. All of us together because it’s the weekend and my husband isn’t rushing to work, leaving me to the privileged loneliness of being the stay-at-home parent. Neither of us so exhausted from the week that we have to ping-pong parent, missing time together as a family and each other to desperately grasp some extra sleep while the other plays with and tends to the kiddo.
The stars have aligned to give us this moment of breathing in and out, of sleepy, grateful smiles. My husband grateful for me taking over face and hand-wiping duty while kiddo protests to his full capacity. Me, grateful that he has added an extra scoop to the coffee pot.
A glance over our sweet one’s head where we share a knowing and understanding that this is it, this is what it’s all about. We’re doing great. This is the life that we wanted and promised each other in our wedding vows, that we’ve worked for, that we’ve built together; a harmonious new normal that was foretold almost two years ago. Our child is the picture of health and happiness, our marriage is strong and rooted, my heart is bursting. Does it get better than this?
Then the gods find it the right time to underline Kendrick Lamar’s important message.
The kiddo poops so immensely while I hold him that we both need a bath and outfit changes, my husband spills hot coffee on his hand in his rush to help me and drops his mug, glass everywhere. Frustration, mess, crying. Laughing, too.
Back to business as usual.