Sit by the Campfire

The first cold snap, reminding me the seasons are about to change.

A plea from the oldest, “Can we have a campfire tonight?”

A chorus to follow from the others, “Yes, please? Can we? And s’mores?!?”

A tired mom, with a to-do list the length of the Mississippi.

But that cool air beckons.

No, no. Too many deadlines to meet. Too much work to do. Too much.

A verbal nudge from the husband, “Maybe we should. You could come out for a little bit.”

But the to-do list.

S’more ingredients loaded up. Sweatshirts on. Baby bundled.

Okay, just for a little bit.

And then the living begins.

The oldest leans on my shoulder in a rare showing of affection. The fire warms my face as I get close enough to roast a marshmallow. Baby snuggles. Laughter. Conversation.

“Mom, come jump on the trampoline!” We leave the warmth of the fire and our feet hit the cool, springy pad. We’re jumping and collapsing in a fit of giggles. We hold hands and jump in circles. I hold them in the center on my lap, one by one, as the others bounce us, my warm lips brushing against the cold tips of their ears, whispering, “I love you.”

Evening falls and the fire slows. We pack up and head inside.

The routine kicks in. Brush your teeth, change into pajamas. Did you go potty?

The to-do list hits again. But it has lost some power since last time.

Because I sat by the fire, and I remembered where the living happens.