It's three am. There is a low noise down the hall that threatens to turn into a scream, so I roll out of bed to intervene. It's Andy. It's almost always Andy these days. Apparently the bad dream involves something with Joey, and he wants brother. I left brother fast asleep in my room, sprawled on Allan's big recliner (unreclined). I manage to diffuse the problem. I return to find my half of the bed filled with boy. I give him a kiss, then waddle over to the other side, where I do the same for the handsome man I married, who is also fast asleep, cuddled with said boy. I get in the recliner, recline it, and try to go back to sleep.
It's mid-afternoon, another day in the waiting rooms of the therapy clinic. Our speech therapist has taken pity on Andy. He likes to play with one of those plastic dollhouses they use for teaching social skills and household words and stuff to kids. She isn't using it today, so she's put it out on the lobby floor for Andy. He's stretched out on his tummy, in the middle of the carpet, playing his littleheart out, sucking on a lollipop he "won" by having dry pants and going potty like a big boy. The house is inhabited by two "baby" dinosaurs. The peace is broken by a crunching noise, and the stick emerges from his mouth, devoid of candy, so that he can say: "Mommy! Need the potty!!!"
The lull in activities before dinner. Two boys are clomping through the house in my shoes, round and round from kitchen to diningroom to livingroom to hall to kitchen, around and around. One has them on the wrong feet. They are also screeching, and hanging their arms, reminiscent of gorillas in Danskos. I realize they are actually both T. Rexes in Danskos.
Morning again. I've managed to retain my space in bed. A soft little hand touches my face. Then little lips find mine. Yes, the boy is up. Suddenly, a small body crashes atop mine with a wild giggle. Yep, the other one is up, too. Now four sets of little fingers are poking, wiggling, trying to tickle me. Get up, Mom! It's time to PLAY!!!
The big yellow bus chugs up the street, sighs and squeaks to a halt in front of the house. I head down the porch steps, admiring the way Joey can now step off the bus and come to me, instead of me having to go fetch him from the bus door. He turns and waves as the bus pulls away, with likely the last words I will hear from him for the next hour: "Bye, bus! See you tomorrow!"
Sometimes, one must stop and admire the normalcy.