Drew wakes up sometime in the six o’clock hour, the hour when I am most dead asleep. This is also the hour that Mike gets up (thank God), and he spends the limited time he has before work playing with Drew. While I sleep away the tired from stupored, middle of the night feedings, the two of them play—the wee one in his monkey pajamas and the big one in his button down and khakis.
At seven I’m up, and the first thing I see as I rub the sleep from my eyes is the two of them, father and son. From their interactions it’s clear that they’ve been up together for some time now; they are synced in some inexplicable way. It’s as if I’m walking in on a secret society, and rather than feel a longing to be let in on the fun I feel grateful—it is the one time of day that I am not absolutely necessary. They’ve got their thing and while they are happy to see me, they are happier to be with each other.
At ten after seven we are on the move. Drew is in the back seat of the car, watching the bright sky unfold before him as we glide down tree-lined streets on our way to the train station. Mike and I spend the eight minute drive talking about our plans for the day and the days ahead. We confirm what calls need to be made, what errands need to be run. One of us remembers a story we meant to tell the other the night before, a tale that got lost in the rush of the previous evening.
Sometimes I wish the train station were further away; I feel like we often hit our conversational stride right as the platform entrance comes into view. Mike has only a few minutes to say goodbye, climb the obnoxiously long staircase up and down the other side before his train pulls in, ready to whisk him off to another day of work. We kiss goodbye and he opens the back door of the car to say goodbye to Drew. I crane my neck to see this last interaction between them.
The door shuts and we pull away. “Just you and me, kid” I say to Drew. We are headed for home, and another day.
Tags: family, motherhood
