Sometimes I think I’m hypnotized by my children. Overwhelmed by their beauty: the blue in their eyes, half-toothed smiles, their creamy skin. I am enchanted by their affection: the way they bury their head in my shoulder, sit in my lap for a good story, share their fudgescicle with me. My chest aches as I feel my heart swelling with my love for them.
I think, “I want more of these wonderful beings.”
Then dinnertime comes around. The baby is below my feet trying to adjust the knob on the stove; he begins crying not because I nudge him out of the way but I can’t figure out the reason. The toddler pushes a chair into the kitchen knocking down toys in her way and begins rifling through the fruit basket on the counter which contains goldfish crackers I forgot to remove. She dumps the crackers onto the floor for the baby and continues to eat some herself. “I want water!” she demands. The baby continues crying, I’m still unsure why. He’s looking up at me with tears streaming down his angelic face. Crying, crying, crying. I almost forget about the vegetables on the stove and quickly give them a stir. The toddler hits the baby on the head to make him stop then offers him a goldfish cracker. This does not appease him. I stand in the kitchen, grease spattered shirt and spatula in hand, not sure what my next move should be.
I think, “I don’t know how people have more of these beings.”