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The wheels on this bus.

10:30am is a magical time of day for me. It is the start of nap time. It is the time when the radio gets switched from Toddler Tunes to obscure folk music or 90’s pop.

Unless Tangled’s “I See the Light” is playing. Then I wait it out, since that’s my jam.

Nap time means Carter’s at school and Jack is snoozing, sprawled out on his back with his hands swung over his head. It means three loads of clean laundry and vacuumed carpets and mopped floors. Well, on good days.

It means I can set my coffee cup on the low table and read a full, uninterrupted chapter in a book. I can use a highlighter. I can leave the cap off the highlighter in between pages.

It’s glorious.

But the quiet is a dangerous time, too.

Dear Megan,

You are missing from me. I dream about you at night and I hear your laugh down my hallways and damn if everyone and their brother doesn’t drive a dark cherry Kia Sorento, including my next door neighbors.

In my parallel conscious, life went another direction. You’re holding my babies and your holding your babies and we’re out to lunch or planning, planning. Always planning ahead.

On this path, all my plans ahead seem cracked and I’ve embraced that they’ll always feel that way.

Of all the things that broke me, I’m ok with this one being permanent. I am strongest at all my broken places, except yours.

I know that you are so proud of all the growing and the love here. I know that you’ve caught up with your dreams and that you can see all the dots from far away.

I tell myself that I know. It’s the salve I rub into the broken places.

– Me

 

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