The boys were both sleeping, sprawled out on tummies curled up on soft beds, the coffee in my hand was warm, hot even, and the kitchen filled with tantalising scent of lemons as a marmalade and a chutney both simmered away. It was 9am, and one of those rare moments of tranquility that makes me wonder why we’re considering moving away, why this isn’t enough, why the ability to be home offering my kids a-not-so-quite-Martha-Mum still leaves something missing in my heart, why the knot in my tummy is so often there. Picking up my coffee I tiptoed through to kiss the babies. T lay awake already, eyes open waiting for me; I kissed him, he beamed.
Placing him down on top of the world, I crept through to M who didn’t stir while I watched the peace of sleep wind down his overwraught toddler-soul, yet two minutes later, as I picked up the (now) warm coffee, I watched him tiptoes himself, from his room straight to his brother and curl up beside him.
My heart swarmed with love as my eyes brimmed with tears. And I wondered again, why the knot keeps returning when they’re so good at unpulling its strings.