Call the Vatican

This afternoon, a miracle took place in our home: a non-parent-initiated, tandem nap. It all started shortly after lunch. Both boys were crying and needing my attention, so I did what often works, at least to some extent. I turned on some music - the Weakerthans' Reunion Tour - got comfy on the couch, propped Bennie for nursing, and invited Addie to join me with some favourite books. Bennie tucked in quietly while Addie curled up next to me, eager for some good stories.

Typically, after two or three books, Addie is squirming around, seeking out a new activity, and Bennie is fed up, quite literally. But today, when we closed the cover of tome number three, a quiet descended on our domestic scene. I shut my eyes and let my head fall back. "Hmmm," I thought, "it's been at least ten seconds of silence, this can't last much longer." I looked down at Addie and his eyes were still open. Two more songs went by and neither child stirred. When I looked again, Bennie was dozing on my lap, and Addie has fallen asleep against my arm. My own awkwardly positioned leg was numb, but I did not dare move it and break the spell of this enchanted moment - so beautiful, so tender, so utterly unexpected.

Trapped as I was, with my extended fingers just inches away from a fascinating adult book, I decided to really notice and appreciate what the present was offering me: the way the curve of Addie's upper lip and nose are perfectly aligned at a certain angle; Bennie's tongue darting in and out of his mouth in a dream of milk, my own hand on his tummy rising and falling with his breath. It takes effort not to move, to brush Addie's fair hair out of his eyes, to scratch at a bit of dried applesauce on Bennie's sweater, to relieve the pain in my hip. The minutes extend to nearly an hour before there's a knock on the door and everything changes.