I stand in front of the mirror, you in my arms. I move the dryer in gentle circles around your head. Your curls shine and tighten. I put the dryer down and tousle your curls. There is a smidgen of moisture left. I look at us in the mirror as we walk out. I love this. Every bit of it. I sit on the rocker and bounce you on my lap. Your sisters stand on either side cooing with you. One tickles your feet while the other presses her cheek to your damp head. I drink it all in. I shoo your sisters downstairs for dinner and sit in the semi darkness.
You spit up on me even as I get you to burp. Wiping away the mix of drool and spit up milk, I feel pleasure course through me. I imagine me younger by many years and the image jars. Perhaps age has a way of making me appreciate the simple pleasures. Perhaps it is pronoia. My life. Our life. It is perfect the way it has unfolded. One thing seguing into another. Each experience laying the ground for the things to come. I look back on the years and cannot but help feel astounded at how it has all played out.
You are sleepy now. I rock back and forth. Your breathing evens and I feel reassured by your weight on my arms. I lower you down into the bassinet, tuck you in and kiss your forehead. The lights from the family room feel harsh to my eyes. I squint and make my way to the sofa. Your sisters kiss me good night and hug me for extra measure. I lay back content from all the love that surrounds me.
Age they say is a number. I feel younger now than I have in years. I want to grab life and embrace it. Each day. Every day.
Older, Wiser, Happier.