On Friday was away the whole day.
Arrived home at 7.00pm.
In time to bath Youngest.
Wrapping him in towel afterwards I cuddled him tight and Made Much, as they say.
'Well,' he began, importantly. Enjoying the cuddle and the warmth.
Little face enveloped in huge soft blue towel. And then he said it.
'I FORT you wasn't dead! I just knew it!' he announced proudly. And Baffingly.
'You knew that I wasn't dead?' I repeated, a little Unnerved by the dialogue we were getting into.
Face creased into huge smile.
'Yes! I fort, Mummy is Not Dead.'
And he wriggled a little closer.
What on Earth goes through these little minds of theirs?
Was once again in awe of how much we are needed and loved. And how much I need just to Be There.
Hugged that little body tight. Helped him on with his pyjamas. Oversaw the Teeth Brushing. Tucked him in and read, for the Hundreth Time, 'Where's that Bastard Wally.' (Not real title. But bloody well should be. Sneaky little sod can't be found and bedtime reading takes BLOODY AGES. Much nicer to read a lovely book which we both enjoy. But No. So it's Wally. Again.)
Said 'Are Farder'together.
Kissed him Goodnight.
His eyes kept shutting with tiredness.
But he still kept the conversation going in order that I might stay a little longer.
As I tiptoed out I prayed hard that Youngest's awful worry, lurking at the back of his mind, doesn't happen for a long time yet.
And down the stairs I went to cuddle Middle Son and Daughter.
Just in case they thought I was dead. Or something.
'OK, Mum?' they ask. Not taking eyes away from screen of telly.
'Yup, thanks,' I answer, dropping kisses on heads before settling down in comfy chair. Opposite lovely fire crackling away.
And I watch the telly. And my children.
And I give thanks.
Lucky old me.