|my little place I call Heaven|
You see, I love to read to children, I could read all day long to them. When my children were at Catholic School I use to go into the classroom once a week and read wonderful stories to all of them. Something I miss to this day. But when someone reads to me, I can't stand it. A little blurb is good, but please, not the entire article.
My usual routine in the morning is to go out on my screened in back porch with my delicious cup of coffee. My laptop sits next to me, patiently waiting for my new post to be created. So many thought enter my small little brain they scream at me, like children in a classroom with there hands raised in the air saying, "take me, use me first, take me Miss Barb, don't use that one, this ones better."
This morning I wanted to blog about the 'firsts' I've witnessed with my children (which will most likely be posted tomorrow) but I can't. You see, when I was 1/4 of the way through, my husband starts reading to me. I just can't concentrate.
I join my husband on the back porch each day, when I can get my sorry butt out of bed early enough, to enjoy what morning has to offer. We both think it's one of the best parts of our day, (I am really partial to 4 to 6 p.m. - especially when I'm at the beach) and we don't want to miss our mornings together. Now that the mornings are a bit cooler, I have to put a few more layers on except for the feet. I just can't bring myself to put socks on just yet. I am a barefoot girl and always will be, no matter how cold my feet feel.
So I grab my laptop, he grabs his paper and our routine starts. I type and he starts his repertoire. His compilation consists of football, tennis, the new Walmart Super Center, pedophiles, a band member we know, photos I should look at, plus all his opinions about the articles, as well as, what we have and haven't done this past year. Ever try to type your own thoughts when someone is talking to you?
He's very similar to my father. My dad would do the same thing to my mother and myself when I would visit. I'd sit there very patiently listening to him, my mind wandering as he spoke only catching a few words here and there, unless I was really interested in the article. But, when he got out his poem about Gunga Din, I would have to draw the line and tell him, no, can't go there again dad. He'd read that poem each time I visited if I'd let him, for some reason he was drawn to it. I should know the thing by heart at this point.
I do the same with my husband. I sit patiently and listen, while I type, only catching a few words. When he reads, it's as if butterflies are flying out of his paper and I'm only catching the ones that really interest me. I know I'll draw on them later while driving or while I'm in the pool, trying to remember what he said and trying to remember what words go with what articles. Only hoping that the pedophile he spoke of has no connection with the new Walmart.
I have gotten use to this routine and I am pretty good at my early morning multitasking. My mother reminds me to enjoy it, "Someday you won't have him around and you'll miss him." I tell her I do enjoy it and yes I would miss my husband dearly if something happened to him. It just wouldn't be the same for me.
They say that a girl "marries her father" and I certainly did. From the corny jokes he tell, the stories he repeats, right down to reading articles to me each and every morning. I love him dearly and am grateful for who he is and that he takes such good care of me. And even though I no longer have my dad around reading Gunga Din, he exists through my husband in many different ways.