He tells me he loves me. He tells me to trust him. I tell him I love him, too. I tell him I'll try.
We say goodbye. I start my day.
And we're off to the races. I direct little people to the potty and help them get dressed. I feed them breakfast. I hold them. I thaw meat for dinner. I start bread. I open math books and teach Zion how to tell time, Bright his times tables. I crack eggs and stir wheat germ into yogurt. I check email. I put underwear away in six different underwear drawers, some with Lightning McQueen and some with bows and some needing desperately to be replaced. I apply mascara if I remember to. I spread peanut butter. I peel apples. I make lists. I apply bandaids and assign time-outs. I spank sweet butt cheeks. I wipe tears. I smooth back hair. I drink hot coffee. I keep track of Lego sets and dole out reading assignments and monitor computer usage and mop up spilled milk and give out rewards and select background music and bake cakes and wash hair and scrub teeth and put pressure on bleeding cuts and hunt down favorite blankies and bring drinks of water and sing songs and turn out lights and close doors.
I go to bed happy, at least where it counts, and I wake up and go to the window again.