Night begins to encroach upon the edges of my windows, and the slackening sun is orange and dull, but the front room is illuminated in its entire Lego-spilled splendor. And I am searching for a pacifier for the baby.
He is clean and warm, in fresh jammies—extra soft from hand-me-down wear and the recent dryer—and is holding a bottle in his hands, noisily suckling, waiting for his books, for me to put him down for the night… with a pacifier.
But we cannot find it so we linger. And we listen to a story about a soccer game. And we rub lotion on an itchy bum. And we accept illustrated “movie tickets” that will later need to be collected for hole-punching. Note to self: it’s in your front right pocket. We dole out dinners I do not approve of (chicken nuggets and cold cereal) and sigh only minimally at the lazy regard for homework.
(And the curious lack of pacifiers.)