Ten.Seven Hundred & Ninety-Seven
What time is it? He’s complaining about his stomach hurting. It must be pretty bad because he does’t usually squirm this much. I follow him back to his room. 2:12 am.
He’s back. I scoop him into the bed. Then there is this sound and I know what it is. My arm is wet and so it the bed and so is the floor. We clean everything up, put fresh sheets on the bed, get him some water to sip on. 5:12 am.
I don’t want to get up.
I open the sliding glass door. The breeze is barely there. I still haven’t eaten or had water or coffee. I just clean a little bit here and a little bit there before we have to pack up and leave for the games.
Lukewarm coffee in the mug. It feels good to have the day off, to be able to be present. Who would have thought that sitting in bleachers all day could feel like a luxury.
So many characters.
I tell him that I still love him even though he threw up on me. We laugh. Maybe I didn’t mind so much because it reminded me of when he was a baby, when they all were babies. The things you get used to when you become a parent: lack of privacy, lack of personal space, lack of time, lack of memory, lack of sleep, unconditional love, deep love, irrational love, heartache, all-consuming awe, irrational pride.
The smell of manure carried with the breeze. You get used to it. Or maybe you don’t.
Just enough time for some reading in the hammock. Just enough time to get relaxed enough that I close my eyes.
Palm tree leaves aglow from the setting sun. The sound of children’s voices in the distance, the new neighbors I think.