This post is part of a linkup. It’s a writing exercise, to see how much can flow from my brain to my fingers to my keyboard to my computer to your screen-in five minutes. Today’s word is: ordinary.
I am working in the kitchen. Cooking or forever washing dishes (or so it seems). Our Boy is roaming about. He usually gravitates to me and I talk to him, this mostly non-verbal tot of mine. Our Boy is pushing the kitchen chair to the counter. He always wants to see what I’m doing. He wants to taste test the food or play in the water that flows into the kitchen sink. He tastes it, too. My husband is home, talking about his day. This time, I’m cooking. I stop what I’m doing, push the chair back to the table and tell Our Boy, “No.” He fusses with an “Awwwww” and goes back to his toys. The pan is hot and I toss whatever it is that I’m cooking into it. Suddenly, two little arms (try to) circle my hips and a little head pushes itself onto my butt (yes, I’m short). Demonstrations of affection from Our Boy are very rare and I immediately stop what I’m doing, bend down, and give him a hug. I squeeze hard and tell him I love him. Just as I pull away, two little hands grab my right hand. They squeeze hard, a little head presses onto my hand, a tiny voice squeals with effort, and a little voice says words that I can’t make out among the sizzling skillet and the closing of the fridge door. I pat Our Boy’s head, and turn back to the pan.
“I wonder what he said?”
My husband exclaims: “It sounded a lot like ‘love you’!”
I squeal, turn again to hug Our Boy, but he’s already gone, running down the hallway to some other mission. And right then and there, too busy with my ordinary, I nearly missed the extraordinary.
(Ok, so it was more like six minutes because I was nervous and kept looking at the clock. And now I’ve made myself emotional. Please pass the tissues.)