Love isn’t grand gestures, flowery platitudes, or mountains of toys. Love doesn’t require self-sacrifice on the part of the giver. Love doesn’t demand service from the recipient.
Love is an accumulation of many little acts.
- A warm lap to land on at the end of a crazy day.
- A look in the eyes that tells them, “I know you. I understand why you feel this way. I will listen.”
- A warm “chocolate milky” every morning, and the ability to ask for a little more chocolate without making mom mad.
- Watching the 9,000th kick flip and yelling encouragement.
- A safe big bed when the shadows on the wall look like ghosts.
- Knowing that she likes less peanut butter and more jam.
- Knowing that he dips absolutely everything in barbecue sauce.
- A readiness to answer questions, no matter the time or the lack of answers.
- Catching his eye at the skate park and mouthing the words, “Olive Juice.”
- Knowing that each of them has different signs that indicate that they are hungry or stressed or tired or over-the-moon happy.
- Allowing them to be who they are without judgments or expectations.
- A note on her pillow saying she’s the most talented girl I know.
- Pouring a bowl of cereal every morning, and tucking them in every night.
As I sit here sipping coffee, smelling blueberry pancakes and looking at the birthday presents my kids made and wrapped, I can’t help but think I ought to be writing an inspirational post about what it’s like to be turning 49. 
The front door flew open. I looked up just in time to see him toss his helmet on the couch. “Mom! You got the house phone, right? Did dad call?”
She’d just walked in the back door from checking on the neighbor’s dog. Time to start baking treats for the church banquet and making calls to beg for donations for the school fundraiser, in between loads of laundry. She had the T.V. on for background noise, even though she didn’t have time to watch anything.
They’d been walking hand-in-hand down the sunny side of Main Street. She stopped in front of a window displaying candles, flower arrangements, leather-bound journals, potpourri sachets and tiny jars of hand creams. Just then the door opened and they were enveloped by floral and citrus scents, sandalwood and patchouli.
Jenny can’t fall asleep unless she leaves her lamp on. (We’re working on that.) I usually wake somewhere in the night, stumble down the hall, reach over her sweet, eyelash-framed face and quietly turn off the lamp.
Last week I got a 
Gawd!
“There’s no such thing as certainty.”
I haven’t been in a hurry to get back to this place. My brain still feels like it’s coming off of a shot of novacaine.
