Playtime

And they play together.

She is tirelessly into all.the.things.
She is relentless in her exploration.
Big things.
Small things.
Sharp things.
Messy things.
She will decimate a Jenga set in .342 seconds after it took me 3 minutes away from the oven to put back together and in the box.

He is crawling after me, then her, but mostly me.
He is putting the big, small, sharp and messy things in his mouth.
He is being encouraged by excited cheerleading from the big one.
He is coming dangerously close to climbing.
Dangerously.

And they are an unholy army of ruckus. They are amok.
The children are amok.

But then, as he knocks down boxes and she says sweetly, “Oh man oh man” in response, I am shown a mirror of my heart. My words on her lips, my weak jaw under his button nose. My love poured out like the Jenga blocks, scattered and colorful and something I trip over constantly.

They are the best of me – literally – and my sacred undoing.

So I’ll gather up my sanity with the rest of the wreckage and keep trying to keep up with the noise and the near-death experiences and the beauty that quite constantly overwhelms me in their symphony.

And I’ll watch them play together.

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