It was like one of those mornings that you read about in a book or a magazine, depicting a perfect scene at home, on a weekend morning.
One boy off playing, my husband just made us breakfast of french toast sticks with sprinkled powdered sugar, my daughter ate at the table, I ate on the couch, sitting with coffee and orange juice.
I wonder, now, what my daughter was thinking about while eating her breakfast because soon after she finished she retrieved many toys from upstairs and the basement and gathered them into the kitchen. I picture her daydream being one of big plans and many shapes and colors.
She played for so long – it was interesting to me the detail and care she put into her play. She would often break out into a Taylor Swift song, almost as if she forget her parents were nearby.
She just played.
Finally, after almost an hour, I sat on the kitchen floor with my camera. This is no small feat as my belly is now the size of a small pickup truck. As soon as I sat, I wondered how I would get up.
She noticed me across the way and began explaining her city to me. The garbage trucks and the homes and the apartments. It was interesting to me; she reminded me what it was like to be little and young and that play is so good and so vital.
I soon had Brian help me up because I actually felt like working in the house. I wanted to clean and set up the baby’s room. It felt right and it felt so good to be doing things.
So, I let her play.
And I began my own kind of play. Going through baby clothes and new purchases and picturing what this boy (it’s so hard for me not to use his name) will look like in these little tiny monkey shoes, how he will smell, what his skin will feel like against mine.
I spent a lot of time daydreaming.
Probably a lot like my daughter, as she ate breakfast.