My Anchor, My Compass

We read Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel every night before bed. Most nights D7 lays next to me, his head resting on my shoulder. The more he gets to know the story, the more questions he asks. What happened to the other steam shovels? Where are the pictures of Kipperville and Kopperville? What does the word "rather" mean (Henry B. Swap smiled in rather a mean way)? J11 wanders around the room getting ready for bed, setting up his Bionicles, interrupting the story.

We read three books every night. D7 and I. I also try and read out loud to J11 every day.

Once stories are done, they each get a glass of water. I tuck them in. For just a minute I lay next to J11 and sometimes he tells me things. Things he is afraid of or worried about. Things that were said to him. I kiss him goodnight. I get up, walk to D7's bed. Lean over and his arms reach up and hug me. He always says, "I love you" first. Sometimes he asks me to stay and usually I tell him no, he's to old. But sometimes I crawl in with him and wait for him to fall asleep. Because sometimes he's that scared. Not often, but sometimes.

They anchor me. My kids. I think right now they are my anchor. I'm lost. I am. I'm lost and scared and lonely. I feel like I'm pushing hard towards something, towards somewhere, but that I have no idea what or where it is.

But when the kids come home from school. When they get up in the morning, or we sit and do homework. When I tuck them in. They anchor me, point me true north, plant my feet solid. I need them right now as much as they need me.