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Monday night Baby Chickadee got into one of her crying jags. Rarely does she do this. Usually she lets us know when she is hungry or tired or needs to burp and is easily pacified, but other than that she just kind of hangs out and squeals with delight when someone talks to her.
But not on Monday.
Monday, as the rest of us sat down to chili and cinnamon rolls, Baby Chickadee could not be appeased. So Hubby and I passed her back and forth, each bouncing her on our knees, then holding her over our shoulders, all while the two of us in turn tried to eat with one hand.
G and Little Missy were not bothered by her crying. No, they barely noticed it. So while the baby cried and Daddy and I got more and more impatient they tried to carry on conversations with us--G about his school and Little Missy about how she does not like the look of this new turkey we put on her plate.
In the midst of the noise, as one child cried and two children did not take turns talking, I looked at Hubby from across the table. He felt my stare and tiredly smiled at me with the corner of his mouth as he held the baby in one hand and balanced a spoonful of chili in the other.
And it struck me anew: I am so glad to be going through this with him. I am glad he is the man with whom I wrangle three children to the table for a family dinner. I am glad he disciplines our children with love. I am glad he is the one who brushes their teeth and tucks them into bed. I am glad I laugh so hard with him after they’re in bed that I worry we’ll wake them up.
As I look back over our years together I can hear a soundtrack playing in the background. In the beginning it was the sweeping romantic music; now it is the frenetic techno beat; and as I look into the future at the end of our lives the music is soft and gentle. It is just the two of us, sitting on our front porch with our iced teas, holding hands as we silently watch the sun fade behind the trees.
I could not ask for a better love song.
Monday night Baby Chickadee got into one of her crying jags. Rarely does she do this. Usually she lets us know when she is hungry or tired or needs to burp and is easily pacified, but other than that she just kind of hangs out and squeals with delight when someone talks to her.
But not on Monday.
Monday, as the rest of us sat down to chili and cinnamon rolls, Baby Chickadee could not be appeased. So Hubby and I passed her back and forth, each bouncing her on our knees, then holding her over our shoulders, all while the two of us in turn tried to eat with one hand.
G and Little Missy were not bothered by her crying. No, they barely noticed it. So while the baby cried and Daddy and I got more and more impatient they tried to carry on conversations with us--G about his school and Little Missy about how she does not like the look of this new turkey we put on her plate.
In the midst of the noise, as one child cried and two children did not take turns talking, I looked at Hubby from across the table. He felt my stare and tiredly smiled at me with the corner of his mouth as he held the baby in one hand and balanced a spoonful of chili in the other.
And it struck me anew: I am so glad to be going through this with him. I am glad he is the man with whom I wrangle three children to the table for a family dinner. I am glad he disciplines our children with love. I am glad he is the one who brushes their teeth and tucks them into bed. I am glad I laugh so hard with him after they’re in bed that I worry we’ll wake them up.
As I look back over our years together I can hear a soundtrack playing in the background. In the beginning it was the sweeping romantic music; now it is the frenetic techno beat; and as I look into the future at the end of our lives the music is soft and gentle. It is just the two of us, sitting on our front porch with our iced teas, holding hands as we silently watch the sun fade behind the trees.
I could not ask for a better love song.
