Ok, so maybe he had a chocolate peanut butter cup for breakfast. And maybe we all slept in well past the point of no return. And maybe the children didn't brush their teeth before school. And maybe the wee lad threw himself down in a fit in front of the door, refusing to put on jacket (or socks, or shoes). And maybe I yelled. A lot.
Still we say I Love You as each one exits the car, off to a day of adventure at school, a day of burning bushes at work.
And I carry him to the front door of the apartment because the ground is too cold for his bare feet.
And the man sends me a series of texts: Yes, he did mail his voter's registration. Is asher too small/big for a leash? Will I meet him for a lunch date?
Suddenly, life is back to normal... whatever normal is for us. We're so far from perfect or ideal or normal that sometimes I'm suffocated by the weight of what we've created.
And sometimes I turn my head to the sun, rejoicing in the broken beauty of it.