I close the door behind them and wait for the incomprehensible mixture of physical missing and mental relief to subside. When I finally turn around, this is what I see:
Shoes higgledy-piggledy across the entrance, as the toddler searched for a pair with optimum flingy-ness.
The kitchen counter: dummy, water bottle, tissues and the 56 cooking implements he managed to nick as I wrestled him into his jacket.
Shoes higgledy-piggledy across the entrance, as the toddler searched for a pair with optimum flingy-ness.
The kitchen counter: dummy, water bottle, tissues and the 56 cooking implements he managed to nick as I wrestled him into his jacket.
The bedroom smells of sleep and milk stains. An unfathomable number of discarded pyjama bits - how can there be four sets when there are three of us? Damp towel, wayward sock. Bedsheet draped over the toddler’s cot, looking a little forlorn now after it was shoved into the limelight this morning as an impromptu tent sail.
Back to the living room. The monkey sits by the sofa, as dazed and confused as I am by the sudden lack of noise. The train is stranded mid-choo. It smells unmistakably of my boys: coffee, cream cheese, fruit. I find yet another lonely, cold cup of tea.
Then the bathroom: more damp towels and a very stinky night nappy. I sigh.
I work from home and Mr P&P does the morning nursery run, so it befalls me to clean up in the quiet after the chaos. I grumble sometimes, about the towels, the dirty clothes, the half-eaten bananas that impinge on what is supposed to be work time.
Hours later, when I take a break from work and wander through the flat, I still find traces of my boy. A plastic spoon clacks under my slipper. I look at the clock and think - he must be having lunch now. Hope he’s okay, hope he’s having fun. A book forgotten on the kitchen counter reminds me of what I have to look forward to once he’s back home.
I work from home and Mr P&P does the morning nursery run, so it befalls me to clean up in the quiet after the chaos. I grumble sometimes, about the towels, the dirty clothes, the half-eaten bananas that impinge on what is supposed to be work time.
Hours later, when I take a break from work and wander through the flat, I still find traces of my boy. A plastic spoon clacks under my slipper. I look at the clock and think - he must be having lunch now. Hope he’s okay, hope he’s having fun. A book forgotten on the kitchen counter reminds me of what I have to look forward to once he’s back home.
I grumble, sometimes. I wonder what it would be like to close the door to all the mess and work in a 'proper' office, sometimes. But then I think, no. I'd rather not. I wouldn't want to miss these ordinary Toddler Traces.
Come say hello:
