This morning I didn’t spend several minutes watching you prance around in your underwear.  Me pretending not to lose my patience.  You pretending not to hear me say, “Please put your pants on” for the third time.

This morning I did not have to goad you, nor any other human being, to “eat two more bites of strawberries” or “find your shoes and put them on”.

This morning I didn’t once have to stop my breakfast mid-bite to get a drink of water, a napkin, more bacon.

To be sure, I woke at 7 as usual, but with no one yelling, “Mooooommy!!  My clock is green!” I just shut my eyes right back up until nearly 8.

My coffee was accompanied by soft indie-pop and a coffee table biography of Frida Kahlo.  I pondered communism, Art, and self-preservation.

Not once did I glance up at the tiny clock on our bar, which each morning customarily ticks down to Time-to-Go-I-Mean-It-Get-In-The-Car-NOW.

Your dad and I reminisced about the old days.  Amused, we regaled each other with the way Saturdays used to be spent.  Before Everything Changed.

“We did so much just sitting around!” he exclaimed, shaking his head.

I pointed out we weren’t necessarily happier then.  (He always felt like we should be getting out and “taking more advantage of New York City,” I often felt like I should be working more.)

What’s more important, freedom or connection?

This morning, you weren’t here to remind me of my answer.  But I remembered just the same.

 

 

 

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