The outside world is a mess today. The sky is milky, and I can’t see past the rocks that guard our home, like a fort, like a castle. Anthony is off chasing his dad. He’s singing to him today. Will he still sing when he is older? I wonder.
Either way, it feels good to be home. I can fall into a couch cushion and never recover. I don’t, but I could. Instead I get to make and destroy and put away all the things in my life, turn this house into a home again and again. I can focus on God and babies and husbands, which is much better than anything else the world has to offer.
Being a parent makes you soft. It scrubs away the hard edges with lack of sleep and poopy diapers and early morning giggles. I cry at commercials now, just like my mom does. I used to laugh at her, now we just exchange glances, knowing. I wonder if I’ll be like her in a few more years. Organized, patient, loving and damn near perfect, though I know she’d never admit to it. Through it’s almond walls and stony tiles her house is a home, and it’s something I long to create here. Empty picture frames, piles of laundry. I’m still working on it.