Hugs

When my daughter was little, maybe age three, I went in her room to wake her up. She was in her big girl bed, all jammies and smiles. Eyes still closed. "Come hug me Momma!", she said. And I climbed in behind her. Spooning her tiny frame. For the rest of the day I could feel her in my arms.

This morning my son was sitting butt naked on the barstool, parked in front of the breakfast bar. Waiting for his oatmeal to appear. He was shivering a bit and clutching his pooh bear blankie and Thomas the Train engine. He likes takes his jammie bottoms off when he pees in the morning. His socks and shirt too. We don't bother getting him dressed till after breakfast because he gets oatmeal all over his clothes. I lean in for a hug, rubbing his tiny back, trying to warm him. I'm all fancy dressed for work.

"Don't go Momma!", he says, still shivering oh so slightly. "Mommie has to go to work honey.", I say. "Ok, ten hugs!", he demands. I lean in, hugging him tight and give him ten squeezes without breaking the seal. Then I get greedy and kiss him on the cheek. "NOOOO kisses!," he whines, wiping the kiss smudge. I smiled, skipping off to work.

It was rainy today. Mr. Hall brought lunch. Sadly, we had almost nothing to say to each other. We have officially run out of conversation. We need to get hobbies. Or go on vacation. Or email each other less. Save up some of the things we want to say to each other.

We ate and smiled and blinked and smiled and played footsie. Then we finished and stood. We snuggled, arms wrapped round. The top of my head fit under his jaw, my cheek against his warm neck. In the nuk. We held tightly, slightly swaying. Then it was one o'clock and he left me to finish my work day.