As I sit at my desk in the room that Glen and I refer to as our "home office," I cannot help but overhear the unmistakable slurping sounds that are coming from right next to me: Lager, our beautiful 12-year-old Labrador, is licking himself with an almost OCD-like concentration.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
David pads into the room to announce, with great delight, that he has finished Chapter 4 of the first Harry Potter book. "I hope to get through Chapter 6 tomorrow!" he proclaims, all giddy. Never mind the fact that it's already 10:30 on a school night.
I wander downstairs in search of a quick snack (a bologna sandwich did the trick) and pause to look at the pile of laundry just sitting on the floor next to the washing machine. I move on.
Once in the kitchen, I take mental note of the open plastic box that serves as my portable filing cabinet for all things pertaining to Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts. The counter is a mess. I go about my bologna sandwich business and go back upstairs.
Back to Lager: he is now in repose on the floor next to me, chin down between the paws, resigned to the fact that he only got a crust (or two) of the aforementioned bologna sandwich. A deep, dramatic sigh emotes from his sturdy frame.
The clock on the wall is ticking. Loudly. I can't tell if it's trying to remind me that I should be getting "real work" done, or simply be heading to bed.
I know that, one day all too soon, I will look back on moments such as these and yearn for the normalcy of it all. Kids - still small and still thinking that I am cool - tucked into bed; the sweet dog at my feet; the house in satisfying disarray.
I resist the urge to go into "the zone" and tidy everything up. Were it not for the late hour, I'd more happy to go back to the kitchen and cook up some of the cookie dough in the refrigerator.
Not tonight. Tonight I pause, and take it in. And enjoy the precious gift of being a mommy.
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