Scenes From A Playroom

James is crouched in front of the firehouse, one hand tight around a fire engine, the other holding a helicopter high in the air. "Spray the water!" he yells, singing the tune of one of his favorite songs from preschool. It mingles with the happy songs emanating from the speaker in the corner.

Miniature furniture litters the ground around him: a tiny blue table, a little desk chair, a small wooden basketball hoop. All knocked from the structure in play, forgotten in light of the blazing fire.

Ellie Jo sits a few feet away, her short legs outstretched in front of her. Between them is a rectangular box with holes dotting the top. Her eyes blaze with concentration as she pushes a wide peg into one of the minuscule circles. A grunt of frustration. Too small.

She moves to the next hole, clapping her hands as the peg slides comfortably into place. A happy shout joins her brother's singing as she reaches for the next peg, wasting no time in her attempt to add it to the box.

And here I am, sitting on the futon couch, watching it all. Wondering how long it will be until one (or both) of these little humans demands that I join them. Which I will, because truth be told, I love to.

Simultaneously, I hope for a few more minutes of rest. I have two children playing in their playroom and one comfortably resting inside me. It's the third one that really takes it out of me these days, sapping my energy as only pregnancy can.

Pregnancy is such a strange phenomenon. Your body is doing all these amazing things, and sometimes you notice them, but most of the time, you feel like garbage and can't wait for it to be over. I feel like that often.

But that's not what I'm thinking about as I watch James drop his helicopter and move to a pile of dinosaurs scattered beneath the chalkboard. It's not what I'm focused on as Ellie tires of the box game, hurling her remaining pegs into the bookshelf with surprising strength for a fourteen-month-old.

No, I'm imagining what this scene will look like next year, with another little girl joining the play. She'll probably laugh and yell and need so much more guidance in these moments than her older siblings, as babies do.

I'm remembering what the playroom looked like last year, with a much younger James still learning to play pretend and a baby Ellie swaying in her newborn swing. The year before, when James was still too young to be in a playroom. The space sat idle, waiting for him to grow old enough to love it.

It's one of the good days. Aren't they all, somehow, good days? Even on the hardest ones, I have two happy little people who love unconditionally. Big hugs. Baby snuggles. Little voices and little feet filling the house with noise.

It's something to be grateful for, even though, as any parent can tell you, this is the hardest job in the world. The most overwhelming and impossible, but also somehow the most rewarding.

My thoughts, scattered as they are, are interrupted.

"Mommy, will you read with me?"

I love how much they love their books. I can't help but smile as he runs to the bookshelf, Ellie tottering behind him. It's really a good day.

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