It's Saturday morning. Shawn was up early to go to the flea markets. I'm lying in bed,enjoying a rare chance to sleep in. Sweet baby Violet is beside me, her red head resting on my arm, snuggled up close. The room is cool, our blankets are snuggly. The sun is shining in behind the curtains. Ahh. This is a great way to greet the weekend.
From the distance, we hear a crash. A boom. Many bangs. The ominous noise grows closer. And closer. The bedroom door flies open. The windows rattle and the walls shake. Two large projectiles shoot through the air and land on the bed with a mighty crash. Suddenly it's all bony arms and elbows and legs. I shield the baby with my free hand -- protecting her from the wave of chaos coming toward us. Shrieks of laughter jolt me awake. My face is suddenly bombarded with sticky kisses coming from every direction. A head flops on my stomach and a foot narrowly misses my face.
Good morning, boys.
And during this bedlam, Miss Violet laughed and laughed. There is nothing funnier to this baby girl than the sight of her crazy big brothers. Soon she was pulled from my grasp and put in the center of the chaos -- to be showered with sticky kisses. Sung to. Talked to. Tickled. Thoroughly entertained until she was giggling and cooing in delight.
And that's when I realized, my life is a circus. A great big, fun, always-moving house of clowns, daredevils, dancing monkeys, wrestling bears, popcorn and peanut shells on the floor, a sweet princess atop a pony, bright colors, loud noises and me, the ring master. I've always loved a good circus. I highly recommend bringing one to your house.
I just thought of something. If I'm the ring master, that makes Shawn the identically dressed little person at my side.