Morning Stories

Each morning as I hear the pitter patter of little feet coming down the stairs, I look forward to that first glimpse of a face that I love.

The puffy eyes that are still clinging to the sleep that moments ago was theirs, the hair that only a night of laying on a pillow can produce, and the first sweet words that will be spoken by the crackly voice that is just waking up.

This morning, it was Ian who first greeted me. I could tell the instant I saw him that something was not right.

As I hugged him, taking in all the sights that I love about that first morning look, his lips began to quiver.

A bad dream.

I asked him if he wanted to talk about it. He said he couldn't remember it but then in the next breath, it came out full of detail and horror. "We were lost", "bad men", "I escaped", "my family was dead".

I hugged him even tighter and tried to calm him with "it was only a dream", and "we're all ok, nobody has been hurt".

I hate bad dreams. But as awful as they are, I love how they cause my children to seek me out as soon as they wake, looking for comfort that only a mother can give. It's one of those moments that makes me so glad that I am a mother, that I have children to comfort, and that I have people who need me.

Most mornings, my children have no stories to tell- and I'm glad for that too. But I am always ready, just in case, with arms to hold and words to comfort in those first early minutes of a new day.