The children played somewhat quietly and cooperatively in their own room for good, long stretches of the morning. Only occasionally, did we need to dole out a kiss for hurt feelings or a bandaid for a scratch. I got them some snack food, for breakfast, on one of my trips downstairs to refill my coffee or get another slice of apple pie.
Now it is nearing noon. And I am still in bed. Yes, a mother of three children, on a micro-farm, in the middle of the winter, is still in bed at noon. The strangest part though, is that my eight year old daughter is still in her bed as well. She is not sick. She is not mad. She is not pouting. She is not playing, or painting her nails. She is reading.
The soft muffle of pages turning can occasionally be heard when there is a lull in the conversations between my other two girls downstairs. I hear her micro-loft bed creak every once in a while, when she roles over, or the small thump of her water glass being returned to the built in bookshelf. But other than that, she is silent in her bed. Like me, she is enjoying the comfort of her bed, well into the middle of the day.
How can this be? Has she turned the corner to teeenage-hood already? Am I destined to weekend mornings without her actually awake for the next decade? Will she emerge moody and sullen, feeling the world is against her and pointless anyway?
No. She is just reading, happily relieved of her younger sisters' constant attentions. She has caught the reading bug from her father, who lays next to me reading a book on his iPad. She has been drawn into the story, as I have been drawn into the stories in my email inbox. She is devouring the words for nourishment for her hectic week of ballet, jazz, gymnastics, spelling tests, math problems and playground games of tag.
She is relaxing in her bed.