I never want to forget

Each night on my way to bed I slip in to check on Ivar and Elsie, to adjust their covers and to give them a kiss on their cheeks. Usually they've already been asleep a few hours and their breathing is heavy and loud. My heart swells twelve sizes and I know I've never been so happy. I move Ivar's entire body so that his head is back at the top of his bed and I reposition Elsie so that her covers are snug around her neck.

I feel something more fulfilled and content and satisfied in this daily ritual than anything else.

It's often right then that I'll step on a little john deere tractor or a duplo, right in the arch of my foot, full body weight. Which keeps it all real. But that feeling of peaceful satisfaction is just as real too. 

And in the night Ivar will need to go to the bathroom and Elsie will cry out because her covers are off. And I'll feel frustrated at the interrupted sleep. But then in the morning, if I'm lucky, I'll open my eyes to two heads watching me, smiling, excited for me to get up and begin the day. And even though I'm tired, my heart swells twelve sizes again. Because I know I've got a pretty great gig.