My feet up, stretched legs out on the ottoman, and there was Gray.
He should have been in bed but he held up a book, and he really wanted me to read to him. I promised in the morning. My soul wanted to, right now. But my bones, and my mind, did not.
And truth-fully? I knew even then that in the morning I'd probably feel the same.
So I sent him back to bed, saying that if he's still awake when I come up I'll read it to him. Knowing he would [hopefully] be asleep when I came up.
I'm just another tired mother.
I tell it to myself, to make it all better.
The book he wanted to read, Are You My Mother?
Do I want my baby birds to know just another tired mother as their mother?
We read the book.