Mornings Good and Good Mornings

I rolled over and pulled the phone out from under my pillow when I heard loud footsteps on the stairs. It was 5:57am. I started to count, and at nine, he busted through the door whispering my name. He had something important to say (don't all 4-year-olds?). I convinced him to get in my bed and I played dead for almost 15 minutes by only giving a "uh-huh" or "uh-uh" when necessary. He let me get away with it.

At 6:17 I heard my baby cry, and I stumbled out of bed with Blaine at my heels. When I walked through the door he stopped crying and smiled, and yelled a delighted "JOO-WEE!" (his version of my name). It made my heart smile. I picked him up out of the crib, and he wrapped his arms around my neck and laid his head on my shoulder. I breathed the sweet baby smell in his shoulder, and he stuck his chubby little hands into my hair. I will never get tired of the feeling of his hands in my hair when he lays on my shoulder. I hope if I have children that they do that, too.

I took them to the nearest tv, and then decided to enjoy my last hour before work with them both on top of me. I forgot how sweet they are first thing in the morning. I forgot how much I missed them. I forget how protective I am of my babies, and I forgot how much I am loved by two very innocent hearts.

It did my heart good. It was what made my mornings good. It gave me the hope and the beauty to KNOW. To know that I mattered to someone. To two someones. To know that all I had to do to get an "I love you" was wake up in the morning. To know that hugs and kisses live right down the street. To know, without a doubt, that I was loved. Even if it was only by someone so little. I was loved, for doing nothing at all but loving back.

And that. Felt. Wonderful.