On Sunday mornings, three sets of feet make their way into our bedroom. I can’t say three little sets because The Princess’s feet are bigger than mine now. Baby Bee stumbles in during the night and fusses at my side until I haul her in over top of me and into the snug middle. Littlebit finds her way in later, usually not long before the sun is up. Sometimes she takes the iPad and disappears into her room or sometimes she lays at the foot of the bed, laying on top of my legs and watching whatever is on the t.v. The Princess stumbles in later, usually inquiring about the days activities and what’s for breakfast?
I linger in bed as long as I can. Big Daddy reaches over Baby Bee to drape an arm across me. I snuggle Baby Bee into my chest. I’m crowded and usually up earlier than I want to be, but I know so many others would love to be in my position, waking up too early with a kink in my neck and little fit jamming into my rib cage.
I ask the Princess to dress Baby Bee. The Princess changes clothes twice before dressing Baby Bee in her Easter dress. Littlebit, who has no regard for the outside temperature opts to wear a long sleeved shirt and thick leggings. It’s going to be too warm for that, Big Daddy and I take turns telling her. She says she knows. I don’t fight any battles over clothes. Wear what you want. Baby Bee accessorizes with a play stethoscope and pink sunglasses. She wears purple shoes. I learned a long time ago not to care much about what the children wore. It’s a place where I can nearly always say yes.
The Princess pushes the cart at the home center while I pick out the plants that are on my list. Baby Bee struts around like a dive in her sunglasses and Littlebit half walks/half dances. Little hands pointing out plants take a long time and Baby Bee is enamored with “rosies!” as dancing rings around them is her favorite game. I know it won’t be long until I have a surly teenager or two who can’t be bothered with little things like picking out evergreen shrubs. Finding my patience isn’t so hard.
At brunch, the girls exhibit model behavior in the tiny, crowded restaurant. Littlebit fidgets a little and Baby Bee let out one, piercing unhappy wail that was quickly quieted with an iPod. Our waitress has children, but she’s working Mother’s Day morning. Big Daddy givers her an extra big tip and I’m thankful that I don’t have to do anything else than stay at home with the girls.
Big Daddy crawls around, pulling the weeds gone wild. The little girls are playing in the empty lot next door. The Princess shovels load after load of heavy rocks into the wheel barrel. Big Daddy and the Princess give me the best present; a day of slave labor, but I help too as we work on making the front of the house as pretty as it is in my imagination. I watch the little girls run and run and run and am overwhelmed at how thankful I am for their ability to run and play and roll in the grass. Not every child has a safe, green place to play and I’m glad that my girls get to engage in a simple childhood pleasure. Littlebit will be rashy after all of the grass rolling, but she doesn’t mind. It’s too fun to stop.
Big Daddy cooks dinner. He plates the food. I’m eternally grateful for a partner who wants to be my partner.
Our bellies are full. The Princess is off to her room for tween decompression time. The little girls and I tuck into the big bed. The day has gotten colder and Littlebit’s outfit of warm leggings and a long sleeved shirt now make perfect sense. It’s raining a little. Eyelids are heavy.
I am so thankful.
I am so lucky.
All of this? Is mine.