My boy is home from a two week vacation in the great north with snow and grandparents galore, and it is back to our daily routine.
We wake, pop a “toastie” (either a Toaster Strudel, Pop Tart, or waffle) in the toaster, and curl up with Playhouse Disney for a bit. A cup of milk, a clean diaper, and a wardrobe change round out the seven o’clock hour, and then we begin our vigil: waiting either at the window or on the front porch (depending on how eager he is) to see Miss Jamie’s minivan come down the street.
One of the best parts about having Seth picked up for “school” (i.e. Mother’s Day Out) by our sweet friend Jamie is that she lives just up the street. In fact, we can see her driveway from ours. And nothing brings a smile to my face faster than seeing Seth’s delight as he notices Miss Jamie’s garage door open.
He’ll jump and clap and grin up at me like a fool for the entire 35 seconds it takes for her minivan to pass the five houses that separate us. She’ll pull in the driveway, hitting the button that automatically opens the rear door, and just like that, he’s off – climbing up into his seat, waving goodbye to me, struggling to disentangle himself from the straps of his “pack-pack.”
He returns to me, eleven long hours later, crumbs from lunch and a daily report crammed into the bottom of his Thomas bag. His babbles on about Mac and Hayden and the rest of his “peeps,” placing his shoes next to the front door – just like daddy. He helps set the table for dinner, keeping up a constant stream of chatter all the while, and just basically, grows up a little more each night, right before my eyes.