I pulled into our driveway yesterday around six-thirty in the evening, though it was still light out. Nana had just dropped off the kids; they were out back with Hubby, chatting with a neighbor. I could see Babyboy pointing at ants in the dirt, while Babygirl twirled and hopped, probably telling all about her day.
I climbed out of the trusty mini-van and gathered up my things, now able to hear the conversation, something about bumblebees, though short-lived, as our neighbor pointed at me and announced: “Look kids, look who’s home!”
“MOMMEEEEEEEEE!!” They both screamed with delight, adorable delight, and ran to me.
I heard our neighbor, a mother of a school-aged child, say wistfully: “Well, that is so sweet, I sure miss that,” as she turned to carry her groceries inside.
Babyboy did as he often does, stopped short of me and veered off, back to the bugs in the dirt. But Babygirl threw herself into my arms and let herself be hugged and kissed. She had only one barrette of the two I had put in her hair that morning; her face was smeared with marker and yogurt; she smelled like banana.
“I saw a bumblebee, it was a big one, and it flew away,” she gushed. You could just eat her up. She wiggled down and scampered off.
I called to Babyboy: “Where’s my hug and kiss?”
He shook his head and stated, “No want give hug and kiss,” his attention on digging in our yard with a sandbox shovel.
“Well, okay, I’ll get my hugs and kisses later!” I laughed it off; he’s full of snuggles at story-time.
And so I kissed Hubby, let my work things drop to the ground, and we stayed outside for a bit, catching up with our days, letting the kids play in the dirt with the bugs and run wild in the springtime evening, knowing they would be up past their bedtimes on a school night, knowing we were hungry and tired ourselves, knowing that evenings like these are precious.