The sun came out yesterday and stayed out all day. By the time the boys got home from school, the last blocks of snow and ice disappeared. The boys rushed through homework and headed outside to play while I finished up a conference call.
As I slipped on my shoes to go outside, I looked out the window to find LittleBrother drawing with sidewalk chalk while wearing his batting helmet.
I love little things like this—when they wear snorkels and capes or super hero masks and a cowboy hat. I love how he moved from wiffle ball to drawing without removing his hat, too caught up in play. I love when my children get to go outside and breathe fresh air.
“Mommy, look at my family picture I made! It’s my sister and my brother and daddy and me and you!”
I stood before his drawing of stick people, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. He drew his sister. I didn’t prompt him to do so; I never do when it comes to school assignments or even at home drawings. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. I am always slammed to the ground with emotion when they choose to do so on their own. They are thinking of her even when I’m not actively fostering that connection. They love her as part of their family, as part of their own selves.
“Oh, Booey. This is the best family picture I’ve ever seen!”
And I meant it. I so meant it.