I can hear them in the hallway, when the sun spills in long peek-a-boos from the bottoms of the curtains, and the giddy chirps from their now near fully toothed mouths sing soft and sweet from under the tiny crack below the door.
And now it is morning time here at home.
Home; a thing nothing more than sticks and stones and crocodile bones all slung safely together with superglue and dry-wall. But home is so much more than a place to keep your things.
In the morning, to their sweet song, I awake to see my babies at play with their daddy. I know that things will change quickly and fiercely as time scurries the four of us forward objectively. Time does not discriminate one moments' worth over another.
Their crawling will turn to walking. They'll dart wildly down the hall, two tiny acrobats of curiosity and clumsiness, still giggling but now capable of chasing one another.
Big blue eyes and waves of fuzzy blonde hair, more than adorable when they first wake; times two!
It's early still in the day of our time together, the sun has yet to rise and the rooster has still to find his voice, yet I see the moon fading with each passing day and this reminds me of our clock and how precious that time is. The bills, the spills and any fleeting thrills are background noise to me now. For if time will not discriminate, it must be up to me to.
Have you ever heard of bad children getting "sticks and stones and crocodile bones" for Christmas instead of a lump of coal? My dad was always saying this when I was growing up. It wasn't till later that I discovered how unique a saying it appears to be.
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