Lucky for the Privilege

It's been an easy week, which is surprising since there was the return to work and school. James and I embrace our routine again. We read. We stack blocks. He knocks them down. We watch Sesame Street. I take to the computer and phone and he screeches my name: Mom. Mooooom. Mom.

We share a snack. We pile cheese on Triscuits. He arranges them in rows, delighted. He counts them. He watches me balance the cheese on my cracker as I bring it to my mouth, then does the same. He is my equal, for a moment. He admires my independence, my ideas. I admire his freedom and spirit. He is a study in energy and movement and noise. When he is still enough for me to examine his eyelashes or stroke his fine hair, I am in awe of this person who will someday be a man.

My child will have leg hair. He will shave. He will run from my attention.

But right now, he's mine.

Lou and I struggle for an evening routine, now that Survivor and The Apprentice are over. We sit side by side, on the couch, clicking at our computers. We read. I make him tickle my back. Last night, we "met" for our weekly Project Runway date; I showered and put on makeup for this, it's such a big deal. Our tastes, as indicated by our comments, are dissimilar. I look at him and think: "Who are you?" and then I think: "I'm glad to know you."

(If you watch PR, my favorite dress was Andrae's. Lou liked Nick's.)

I am reading "The Four Agreements" and "Cowboys are my Weakness" and "Almost Paradise: The East Hampton Murder of Ted Ammon" and "PoemCrazy." I am rereading "All is Vanity." I have books for all occasions: books to read when I am celebrating words, books to read while I am eating eggs and Morningstar Farms sausage and potatoes for breakfast, books to read while I'm drinking a beer, books to read in the tub or on the toilet.

There is a right book for every moment. I am a switcher-betweener, a lover of passages, a re-reader who sinks into a favored book like an exhausted person would sink into a heavy, down comforter.

In my book queue, there are these books: "Interpreter of Maladies," "Saving Fish From Drowning," "Everyone Worth Knowing," "Looking for Mr. Goodbar," "Carmelo," "Leaving a Trace," and "The Book of Salt."

I've ordered the Winter issue of "The Strange Fruit," a literary magazine that I love. I can't wait for it to arrive.

I'm still thinking about the miners and their families. I'm thinking about the people in Pakistan who are still homeless, in the Winter, from the earthquake. I'm thinking about the quiet tragedies that happen everyday, the grandmother who is hit by a car, the brother who had a heart attack, the baby with leukemia.

While I scrub the dishes, I try to be in that moment. I feel the hot water and I rub the sponge across the coated plates with a steady, yet gentle pressure. I smell the dish soap. I watch tiny bubbles rise up from the water, like a brigade of hot air balloons in preplanned launch.

I am lucky to be here, scrubbing the dishes, reading my books, and loving my family.

I am lucky.