My favorite part / by Christina Rosalie

I come home after they're asleep; after a day filled like honey in a comb, the hours oozing from between the cracks of overlapping schedules, workloads, deadlines, demands, and now this sweetness. This, at their bedsides in the dark, listening to their breathing: soft and even.

Sprout still sleeps like a baby: his arms thrown up above his head, pacifier in his mouth, legs askew. His hair is almost damp and soft, so soft; his fingers curled into his palms.

Bean sleeps with long legs pulled up to his chest, on his side, curled with a hand under his cheek. He's kicked his covers off the way he always does, and I replace them, tugging them softly up around his chin.

It's this that is my favorite part: the way the day ends and I have them.

That they're mine; these two boys.

And even when I'm gone pulling long hours and making dreams come true, they're ready whenever I return to yell "Mommy!" as I come through the door; to throw themselves at my waist, sticky-handed and too loud, the house a tumult of their messes.

(Being their mother is one of the best things in the world.)