Ben Folds croons about Jesus on the Bose speakers as afternoon sunlight slips and trickles into the living room. Thomas is serving himself from this morning’s pot of oatmeal while finding the delivery trucks in each of his truck books, squealing as every new one is found. It is the kind of warm, thick day that we never saw all summer, not unbearable but insistent enough to make you stop and say, “yes, this is summer.” Iced almond latter weather – I’ve been cobbling together a homemade version every day this week. Mornings with toes dipped in the chilly Atlantic weather. Don’t go running until dusk weather. Sit out together on the patio after the toddler goes to bed and count the stars weather. No knowing where skin ends and atmosphere begins weather.
It’s easy to overlook these days, to cruise right by. The days when the double batch of banana bread (one with fresh cranberries, one with coconut) bakes up just right, when knitting projects look and feel like they’re progressing, when Ray LaMontagne follows Van Morisson follows that previously mentioned Ben Folds. Pillow fights. Made up songs about backhoe trucks. A half-naked barbarian child drawing scribbles in my notebook. Fridge and counters full of good food. Paychecks coming in.
In twenty days, he’ll be two years old. And I have been mothering for over 700 days. I guess we’re doing pretty well.