She creeps into the living room and curls up next to me on the couch. I hug her gently, then cover her with a blanket and absentmindedly rub her back for a few seconds before I resume typing. She lays quietly, one of the only times of the day she’s still.
Most mornings I’m able to stay focused and productive.
Today my mind wanders. I think about the little person next to me. Is she taller than yesterday? I hadn’t realized that her toes poke out from under this blanket. I readjust her cover, trying to get her entire body to fit underneath.
I want to finish one more thing before I close my laptop. But I know that too often, one more thing turns into ten more things, and she’s up and running around, asking for breakfast, and her sister needs something too, and I’m frustrated, trying to finish my work, but no longer even making sense with my words.
I wonder why I do that to myself. Why do I waste these precious opportunities? I know quiet will come, during after-school quiet time, or after bedtime, and there will be another chance to write.
Too often, I choose to work until a little after my self-set time is up. Today, an exception, I choose the best thing.
I hear the beep as my laptop closes. My daughter looks up, surprised. I set my computer on the coffee table, draw her on to my lap and whisper, “You’re more important. I’m sorry that I don’t always choose the best. I’m choosing the best today. Let’s chat.”
She looks into my eye and softly kisses my cheeks before leaning into me with a deep, satisfied sigh.
I hug her gently, content in knowing that I chose the best. My words to the world can wait. But my babies? They won’t keep.