Last night, I left the house topsy turvy and went to bed. Sweet Fiona needed me from 7pm on. Period. There would be no Little People pick up, no dish washing, no bed making, no way. Just a baby who needed her mama. Dishes can be done later. Babies don’t wait. And they don’t last, either.
This morning, I woke up early, excited about a no-rain forecast. I started laundry, did some of those dishes, put on my sneakers — and no sooner had I stepped out the door to begin my much-anticipated walk than I got a text. “Are you still home? Fiona’s awake.” Awake, hungry, needing no one but me.
And now I’m watching the sun rise and the dew sparkle from my couch, instead of from North Street. I hear children playing instead of birds chirping. And a sweet babe, belly filled and warm, is curled up on my chest, asleep.
This is the season of Fiona. Precious, fleeting, never to be repeated.
Not to be traded for all the walks in the world.
