(This, you should note, I wrote during the afternoon BEFORE the toothpaste incident)
The past few days, we've moved to a vacation cadence: The sun's steadily streamed through the windows, a breeze continues to make the leafy branches nod slightly and the curtains by the backdoor slowly billow, the fair's hubbub spins and spirals down the street, and none of us is sleeping.
Usually Silas and Eden hold a steady schedule -- wake time, nap time, bedtime -- as if tiny timers tick in their silky-haired heads. And I hold them to it, clinging to their sleep because I know how much I need my own for any patience or semblance of flexibility. So we tend to bed early and wake early. By 6ish, I'm flipping eggs in the kitchen while Eden crawls around the floor and the kettle whistles.
But today, we have hit a moment of summer, of timelessness and freedom. For the last three hours, I've sat at this kitchen table reading poems, jotting notes, eating tomatoes with balsamic and salt. Eden threw things from her crib, refused nap, and finally, hours late, fell asleep. By now afternoon is creeping into late afternoon, but I am not waking them. I'm listening to the wind chimes. I'm sitting at the worn table. I'm feeling like I'm at the ocean in my living room. Like nothing matters. Like we may all stay up until 9 together if we'd like. Like we may bake and walk for ice cream cones, or sit on the back deck after sunset. The little ones and I.
And just now as I type, I hear Eden is making little sounds and Silas's husky voice answering. We are awake.