Living with Sunday morning Blues
Sundays tend to be hard for my hubby and me. Sundays were, and still are, the guaranteed day of the week our whole family will be together. We made a point of this. No work, unless it was done as a family unit.
Now our Sundays seem hollow. We still haven't adjusted completely to our new family unit. Sundays with the Shalebug meant waking up and rolling over to face the edge of the bed and opening your eyes to find two little blue ones staring back at you. It was a wonderful way to wake up.
I'd lift him onto the bed, where I would slobber all over him. He would be right between Boo and me. He always turned to touch Daddy's hair. There must have been something magical to Shalebug about Dad's hair. Because whenever Boo was around, the Bug went out of his way to feel his father's hair.
After cuddling and hair touching, if he had a bad night, he would fall asleep on my pillow. If the night was kind to him, he would giggle and laugh, especially if Fric and Frac joined us in the bed. We would all tussle about, having wrestling wars, until my coffee demon came calling.
Sundays are still good. But mornings are hard. No one touches daddy's hair, and there are no blue eyes level with bed.