Frozen

I lay in bed this morning, after Jar and George had already gotten up. I could hear tiny high pitched cartoon voices floating down the hall from the tv, occasionally interrupted by Jar's deep voice or a squeak from George. After a few minutes, the relative quiet is broken by the clinking of a spoon stirring a coffee cup. He usually makes my coffee for me since he is usually up and gone long before I am functioning in the morning.

This is our last full day at home together.

I hear his footsteps coming down the hall, and he walks into the room, coffee in hand. He sits it on the bedside table, leans over and wraps me in a hug. I think he might have known what I was thinking.

I lay there a few more minutes, not sure if my body would be able to support me if I got out of bed. I feel like jello, and the sadness keeps hitting me in waves that resonate out from my chest and down my arms and legs like cold chills.

My pity party is short lived, as a little tow-head pops over the edge of the bed.

"Mommy, here your glasses!"

Time to get up and thaw out. As much as I wish I could, I can't freeze time. Today will go by way too fast, but hopefully so will the next year.