Middle of the night ramblings from a sentimental (and emotional) mother. . .
It doesn't happen very often, but one morning this week Oliver and I were home alone together. We took the big kids to school, dropped Audrey off at her cousins to play and came back to the cozy brick house.
He took a nice long bath. Not the rushed kind that he usually gets in the morning. This day he splashed with "his guys" (army men), "man-mals" (animals), and "dine-sars" (dinosaurs) until his fingers were nice and wrinkled. After I pulled him from the tub we q-tipped his ears, clipped his nails (fingers and toes), brushed his hair into a nice comb over (see photo above), and dressed him up in a handsome plaid shirt. For some reason I've been thinking about this simple sequence of events all week. I vividly remember repeating in my mind how grateful I was to have this boy. To love him. To mother him. To serve him.
All too often we're rushing around. Scratch that. All too often I'm rushing around and while I'm rushing I miss the beauty. The beauty of Oliver + Sam enjoying the morning sun. The beauty in a noisy house. The beauty in these fleeting days. The days when my babies are little. When I'm the one clipping their nails (fingers and toes), combing their hair and buttoning up their handsome shirts.