When the sun breaks in
I’m holding him against my chest, his almost-four-year-old-frame over half of my height. He rests his chin against my shoulder and wraps his arms around me. I sway back and forth, back and forth, just like I used to do all those years ago when we would be punch drunk on exhaustion and begging him to sleep through the night.
“Buddy, mama has a meeting. I’m going to put you down now, okay?”
He clings tighter. I turn my head to kiss behind his ear. When I try and put him down, he wraps his legs around my waist.
He hasn’t resisted independence in months. I shift my weight and sit on his bed, still swaying back and forth. I glance at Russ. He shrugs. Neither of us know anything anymore about how to parent a child during a pandemic, so we take one step at a time. One breath at a time.
“You okay, Jubal?”
He turns his head and rests it against my chest, his eyes focused on his window. Late afternoon light pushes through his curtains.
“You looking at the sun, bubba?”
“It’s trying to break in,” he whispers, his voice still gravelly with sleep and dreams.
“What’s trying to break in, babe?”
“The sun.”
“Yeah, kiddo. That’s what the sun does. It breaks through the darkness.”
//
It’s been cloudy all day today. Actually, I think since we’ve been home we’ve seen the sun only a handful of times. It’s just been a gloomy season all around. The literary vein in me would call this pathetic fallacy. The realistic side of me just thinks it’s been horrible for my allergies.
I’ve been lethargic for days — mostly sleep deprivation but also this inherent desire for quiet and solitude. Jubal wakes up so early now, and even if Russ gets up with him so I can get more rest the sleep is fitful. At night though, the quiet is so tantalizing I find myself staying up to read and write and breathe the calm into my soul. In other words, I’ve been fighting a losing battle with my exhaustion.
Today, I hit the wall.
Jubal came into our room before 5am, and rather than being crawled over repeatedly (these 37 year old muscles just can’t take the knobby knees and elbows of a toddler, y’all) I got up and curled up with him on the couch while he watched Wall-E.
Our day has been much of the same: cuddling, napping, snacking, laughing. There’s only been a little bit of tears.
So after we wipe sleep from our eyes from napping this afternoon, the clouds finally break and the rain comes down in sheets. I stay in my corner of the couch, watching it fall while reading a book. Jubal learns to cut tomatoes with papa. He brings me seeds dripping red and smiles, “I made it for you, mama.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. This looks delicious.”
I look outside again and and run to the front door. I’m afraid I might miss it. Jubal sees me and comes running after me, peeking around my shorts.
“Mama, what are you doing?”
“It’s sunshine rain, bubba. Look!” I watch as the drops glisten and am amazed all over again at how blinding rain can be when the drops turn into reflective prisms.
“Sunshine rain?” He curls his face into a confused question mark.
“Yeah. Normally, when it rains it’s cloudy right? And there’s thunder? But right now, look. It’s raining, but the sun is shining. Remember what we talked about yesterday? The sun breaks in — even when it rains.”
“Yeah,” he whispers under his breath.
He studies it from the door, curious. Slowly, he ventures out from behind me to the porch.
“Can I touch it just one time?”
“Yes, babe. Go get you some sunshine.”
And as I watch him walk into the sun and feel the rain on his skin, I hear the quiet giggles escaping him.
I smile.
