As I’m sitting here on the couch, sipping the coffee M had to drive me to go get because we (I let it) ran out, I hear my oldest daughter’s telling, disappointed sigh from the kitchen, followed by my youngest daughter’s mini tantrum about her rainbow loom project not working out. M looks at me, predicts the sigh from L in the kitchen, reminds me not to engage her, tells E to stop catastrophizing and gives her advice, smiles and goes back to reading his news.
That amazing man sitting in that chair over there has three of me. Three. Of. Me. And he handles it all happily, with patience and insight and wholehearted love. Not without mistakes, but with every ounce of effort and love in his spirit. And I love every fucking ounce.