A striking thing happened this morning after dropping my son off at his preschool. I returned home, did not check email, vacuum up dog hair, make a Trader Joe’s list, stare intently at Yahoo news while groaning at the spelling errors, or workout with my DVD peeps. I wrote—and experienced: Happiness.
I never expect to feel happy when writing—not because I hate it, but because with an active, early-rising three year old, writing is about accomplishing what I can before the next little-boy event, rather than consciously enjoying the creative process. As I worked, I was on some level aware of the house finches in my front yard’s trees—instead of the dog snoring, cats gakking and/or the many lawnmowers of suburbia. When I glanced at my watch, two and a half hours had passed in a blink and my heart was fat with—I think it’s safe to say: Bliss.
Knowing I would grab my weird-coat that only I can love, minivan keys and the dog by 12:50p.m. and zoom to pick up my son made the morning even more—I’m thinking precious is the word.
Since I became a mother, life is always surprising me with its myriad of ordinary miracles and pockets of personal bliss I used to—I’m pretty sure, although life before my son and his early waking hours is persistently fuzzy—take for granted.
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