You and me sitting at a coffee shop sipping something sweet and sharing a piece of lemon cake while you point at every bird, car, motorcycle and bus floating by. I wish we could start every Saturday just like this Saturday.
I awake to you singing in your crib.
"Let it go, let it go, let it go." (reference Frozen).
I roll out of bed with three big stretches and sneak into your room.
"MOMMY!" you scream.
"I'M MOMMY!" I scream back. We kiss through the crib because that tends to be the way you like your kisses these days.
I pull you out of bed as you protest.
"I go night night. I go night night."
"Ok," I say throwing you back in your bed. I pretend to leave the room as you protest again.
"No, no, don't leave, mommy."
And then you get dressed and we read a few poems and we go on our long walk to see the ducks. This time there are babies. The neighborhood is alive with pooping dogs, owners scrambling to clean it up and laughing couples with giggling babies. This neighborhood is my dream and my reality wrapped into one.
This mother's day weekend all I need is you and me sharing a piece of lemon cake on a busy city street.
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