04:30
Slightly cool in the house. Adjusted to 68 for her; I slow roll to the edge of the bed and stretch my toes.
We needed this King-size, but the Queen was better.
The crisp fan making its ol’ offer of ten more minutes under the covers. I feel her hands drift off my back as I rise to my feet and walk into our bathroom.
Shower, skip the teeth, lather the face.
Rubbing her booty as I walk out into the hall half-damp; her snores like little prayers that many more days like this are to come.
I walk down the hall past the boys, to our daughters; safe and slump. I pace back to our sons, the same.
Content enough to indulge in my secret love of coffee, a self-denial in my younger days now-turned delicacy as a family man.
Long johns and boots, I grab my FN in the top cabinet and take it with me outside as I water her garden before sunrise.
Sometimes the coyotes prefer just before dawn.
I make way to our coop, glancing at the guesthouse in the distance, and piss off our rooster for doing his job for him before stepping back in the house for another shower.
Man. I love showers.
Teeth brushed this time.
06:03.
Crawling back into bed, wiping the drool off her face with my hand, I kiss her awake and spend the next half-hour using our bodies to convince her to make us another rugrat.
Fighting the urge to drift off, I rise up again and she holds onto my shoulder longingly…
I can’t, I refuse, to leave and for a bit longer we try making another.
07:11.
I put on pants and wake up the boys, reminding them it’s their job to politely wake up the girls by knocking.
She makes breakfast, and reminds me to pick up more frame for the shed after I drop our kids off at school.
Everyday is a new form of chaos that we’d never trade, and eventually the kids are in the car and I agonize over pulling out of our homestead and seeing her in the rearview.
09:45.
I return to an empty home and offload the lumber; missing her until the evening when she returns.
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Consulting, contract drafting, working from home; the day goes quick as I periodically check on our animal friends and scan the wraparound porch for gardening snakes and banana spiders.
18:17.
They’ve returned. School, judo lessons, singing lessons done for the day. I hug them softly but firm.
Removing the marinated ribeye from our second fridge, I began to cook it as she helped our young ones put their belongings somewhere around where they are supposed to be.
I set the meat for slow cook, and as she showered, I quiz our kids on their day, their feelings, their worries. We visit the chicken coop because it’s unavoidable for them to be best friends with our future dinner.
One of their lessons in life and death. And the therapy of commonality.
She calls for us, and both a daughter and son respond; they all run to the house.
19:13.
Dinner’s almost ready: her signature broccolini and mashed potatoes, and my almost-perfectly timed steak.
19:32.
We dine. We laugh. We vinyl. We debate. We deescalate. The kids shower.
20:57.
Kids clean the kitchen, we clean the table. It’s our youngest’s turn to pick a movie or board game for the night.
Chutes & Ladders it is.
21:51.
The kids prepare for bed and I do our checklist that they’ve learned to accept:
- teeth? check.
- homework? completed earlier.
- things on their mind? become the things on our mind.
- She reads a bedtime story for our sons, it’s their favorite, even the oldest.
22:48.
She accepts my invitation for a comfort shower; washing each other’s backs, hugging, and admiring the beauty of it all. We decompress our days as we find our way to bed.
She always drifts off before I do.
23:40.
I rub her hand across my beard, listening to her deep sighs, and eventually I join her until dawn.
