I woke up this morning to one of my favorite things.
Chris and I got to bed later than we meant to, so today, I was the one reduced to monosyllabic grunts. This left Chris to be the one to tell me that the alarm had already gone off and we needed to get going.
Some things about this week have been really hard. As much as we desperately needed Thanksgiving break, school holidays always leave us wondering if it wouldn't be better to plow through to the end. It's hard to regain momentum, and easy to get discouraged.
Other things about this week have been wonderful. I've baked so much that we're out of white sugar. Chris continues to be sweet and self-sacrificing, even when I'm not very good at vocalizing my needs. And I've realized that, perhaps for the first time ever, my pathological perfectionism is waning.
I don't have to look at the whiteboard to know that there are several things I need to do today. I can already tell you: several of them won't get done. As I sit here, listening to Christmas music, it's hard to care.
This morning, I pulled Chris' arm around me as he leaned on the doorframe, looking at something on his phone. I put my face in his neck and breathed in.
I shook my head.
"Nothing is wrong?"
What he didn't know, and what I couldn't articulate, was that I wanted to have a moment to carry with me today. The weight of his arm around me, the feel of his skin on my cheek, his particular scent, the warmth of his love -- no matter how much I get done today, I'll think of that and be grateful.