An evening on a couch

On a couch

Sometimes on a couch in the evening,
babies who aren't babies anymore ask for a snuggle.

"Mom?" and you look at those eyes and you just know,
sickness has arrived,
knocking at the door.

As you wrap your arms around that little body,
sucking it in so you can both fit on the narrow expanse of couch,
you feel your feet knock up against the bigger baby body,
this one long and lean and full of new-ness.
New smells, new feelings, new emotions.
This pre-teen baby entangles her feet with yours and leans in just a bit.
This one needs you as much as the one in your arms,
so you listen carefully as she tells you a story,
one so boring your eyes
start...
         to...
                glaze and drift,
but you catch her looking at you
and you remember that adage about
listening to the unimportant stuff
so they keep talking to you about the important stuff..

The third one bounds in.
He by your head, his very presence disturbing his younger brother's force-field.
You reach a hand out,
knowing he'll lean in for a back scratch,
just like a cat.
And as you scratch,
he
s
t
i
l
l
s.
Just like he always does.

As every part of your body and mind
is occupied with the work of loving these little people through another day,
you long to close your eyes and rest.
And sometimes you do.
And sometimes you just sit,
even for five minutes,
and soak up their chaos.

My aunt always says that you never know when it's the last time you do something with your kids. I think about that sometimes:
when is the last time I picked one of them up?
And how the moment slipped away unnoticed because
I didn't know it would be the last time.

All these moments, they pile up, like the laundry that waits for me after bedtime
like the lesson plans that must be finished,
like the lists I'm still crossing off.

I tuck them away,
knowing that though I won't always remember them,
that doesn't make them matter any less.