Processional

There I am.  The one who is smiling -- and looking around -- assessing the room.  I'm an observer.  I like to soak up the details and take my time processing the unfolding story.

My son is the barefoot one who is running wildly down the aisle.  His gusto proceeds him as he bursts into a room.  Sometimes a moment catches him off guard and I find him clinging to my leg.  Most of the time, however, I can't find him at all -- his adventures carry him off to distant hallways and secret rooms.

Ryan is over there -- nodding and smiling while someone is talking, but he's only half listening and will answer "yes" to questions he hasn't quite heard.  Children hang from him like a well-dressed Christmas tree.  He flings them in the air while juggling a couple more -- happily a Pied Piper with no other agenda than to be in that moment.

My baby boy is the small one -- laughing and singing while testing out his balance on his feet.  He squirms, squiggles, squeals . . . and generally thinks life is one hilarious party.  Mama's arms are always best, and he'll treat you to a brilliant smile when safe in said arms.

Here we come . . . Blazer dashing out in front; Dash tucked in my arms; Ryan carrying three bags slung over various shoulders;

and I am smiling.