I woke up this morning with a headache. Which, for me, means it will soon morphe into a migraine. I heard JD crying in his crib. Since we just forced him to kick his pacifier habit a few days ago, at 17 months old (4 months longer than Annaleigh), he tends to be a lot more "verbal" when he's unhappy. I contemplated pulling the pillow over my head and purposefully ignoring him. Mike apparently had the same idea.
I waited a few moments, hoping his cries would subside and he would telepathically understand that I'm telling him he needs to suck it up. Mama will get you when she gets you.
I sat up. And I could feel the blood drain from my head...sending a pulse of pain to the back of my eye.
"This is going to be a long day," I thought.
I sat for a few more minutes. Closing my eyes. Waiting for the pain to dissapaite and dissolve into the rest of my body. It never came.
So I slid my legs off the side of the bed and hit the auto-pilot button. I proceeded to put on my sweatpants and slipper socks. Made my way towards JD's crib. I glanced over at Annaleigh's bed and wished I could join the little sleeping beauty. Lucky her. By this time, JD has stopped crying. Apparently migraine telepathy is effective. I decide I should inform the press.
My morning comes and goes. It's filled with coffee, asprin, feeding my imps frosted mini-wheats that they wait to eat until it's sopping with milk and disgustingly soggy and will ultimately never finish. I find the strength to get us all dressed. My husband sneaks in behind me and wraps his strong, warm arms around me.
He leaves for work with a kiss. To me. To his babies. We can't wait for him to be back.
We find our way through a forest of toys and the kiddos tinker here and there. Annaleigh making me blue play-dough sandwiches. JD banging on his Christmas drum.
I decided to turn on the TV. We find Sesame Street. My littles blindly find their way to my lap....as if through a shared biological magnetic force. We settle under a blanket. And although the TV blares it's incessant alphabet and number chatter, the only noise I hear is their breath. Their slow, peaceful, contented breath.
I begin to marvel. I am amazed at God. At them. Annaleigh leans forward as she lets out a man-sized guffah in response to a silly Elmo. The back of her shirt is raised, causing her spine to peek out from beneath it. I can't fathom the miracle of it. Both these blessings were formed within me. And now they sit here, breathing. Real enough to hold, caress, and kiss. Filling my soul with warmth.
My migraine is relentless. It tries to rob me of the joy I've just found. In an effort to kill it's kill-joy, I rest my head on my boy's head. It smells of clean sheets, shampoo, and sweat. I inhale. I close my eyes. I can't ignore it. It's too big. Too wild. Too consuming. The love rushes through and over me like death-weilding rapids. The funny thing about death is, is it reminds you to live.
And I think to myself, "I hope this is going to be a long day..."