I heard Zack making some noise right on cue this afternoon, signifying the end of naptime.
I slugged one more sip out of my coffee mug, put the laptop away and did a little stretch at the bottom of the stairs. As I rounded the corner on the landing, I stifle a laugh when I see two mismatched Zack socks that have been pushed out from under his door.
I open the door and hear him singing.
He is sitting at the bottom step to his Zook Nook reading and comfy area of his closet, singing Happy Birthday.
He sees me, smiles, and yells, “Happy Birthday, Momma!” (It’s not my birthday, sidenote.)
I tell him thank you and make sure he is still wearing pants. (Pants, no; diaper, yes)
He holds out his hands to me like he’s cupping a secret.
I pretend to open a wrapped box and exclaim my love for this invisible gift.
I ask him what it is as we walk down the stairs.
“Cake!” he says with a smile. “Yum!”
He pretends to rub his belly and I rub mine.
There are a thousand moments like this a week.
A thousand times I pinch myself or say a quiet “thank you” to the stars or tuck away a memory to retrieve in the middle of a horrendous diaper explosion, stomach bug, temper tantrum or begging for a snack.
A thousand times I feel like I shall have my cake and eat it, too. Even if it’s invisible. Especially if its invisible.