A Certain Kind of Day

There are some days that are different from all the rest. Days when I just want to snuggle my little boy up in a blanket and pretend he’s still a baby, take him out in the yard to sniff the camellias and lavender and inspect the almost blooming gardenias, and then paint tiny birds nests until my hands and neck are sore and my front is speckled with brown and green and blue acrylics and there’s not a white canvas to be found. Then I want to lay my baby down for a long nap so I can eat chocolate and spicy chicken soup and paint my toenails. I don’t want to think about real life love and romance on those days… unless it’s on screen or written in flowery prose, I’m not interested. And when my boy wakes up, I just want to return to our painting, and the mess of crayons and fingerpaints and stickers until we are forced to stop and eat something yummy and warm and most-likely mushy before bathtime, where he’ll splash for the better part of an hour and I get to think of nothing but my squeaky-clean smelling baby and keeping the water just warm enough. And then, on that kind of day, after dinosaur pajamas and about 10 story books and a nice long cuddle to sleep, I want no TV, no computer (in case they’ll remind me I’m still living in the real world) just a long, almost-too-hot shower to scrub and peel the paint off my hands and arms, and lather it out of my hair (where it unfailingly finds its way). In the solitude of the evening that follows one of those days, I want to step into the yard in my bare feet and wet hair, under the porch light and a little bit of moon to water my plants and smell the wet brick and soil so that I can fall asleep while the scents of my tiny Eden linger in my atmosphere.