Thursday, May 1
I am a horse. I sit on the couch, coughing, minding my own business, when my rider wraps his arms around my neck and jumps with both legs onto my back. I am urged that I must go and that I must go fast. I settle for a bouncy trot instead. We ride this way for a while, me and my rider, and I catch myself in the mirror. A baby on my back, a baby on my front. And in that moment, with a boyish bubble of a laugh bursting behind me and into my ear, my hip goes numb and I resign as the horse until further notice, probably tomorrow.
But then I am a chair. A squishy, lumpy, bump of a chair, that still has a little room for tiny boys to curl up or sprawl out on. Everett doesn't mind the extra lumps at all, but sometimes we'll be curled up together and I'll be resting my hands on his legs when he'll say, "No touch it. No touch the bum Mama." and I'll know to adjust him so he stops squishing his sister and she stops kicking him.
I am a house. My arms a house of love and comfort and companionship, my belly a house of protection and growth. I lift my shirt and watch it move and shift, growing higher and harder in some places and lower and soft in others, while my arms wrap around the boy resting on my chest and I am so happy. To be the horse, and the chair, and the house. And Spider-Man too, depending on the day. Just add it to the list of things I never knew I wanted to be when I grew up.