Yesterday, the sunrise stopped us in our tracks.
I was on the way to the kitchen to make Aunt Kate’s pancakes for Jack’s birthday breakfast with eager boys in tow, but the sky was shockingly full of color. We diverted our course and headed to the front stoop to soak it in.
It was a fiery dawn. The searing orange glow of the sun reminded the world that it is just a ball of gas on fire. Bright pink surrounded it, softening the effect. Jack said you could see purple too. I suppose that with the backdrop of the blue sky and all that pink, you could see violet if you wanted to.
He did.
As I sat nestled between my two sons, I thought about how lucky I was. What a rare moment for a mother to share with her children: witnessing the birth of a day on her child’s birthday.
I remembered the sunrise three years earlier as Andres drove Jack and I home six hours after he was born. The fear and flutter in my heart, not just as the spell of a magical night broke, but at my first moments being a mother of two. Our destination was home, to Max, on the first morning he woke up to find both of his parents absent. Each red light brought less pink and more light to the world.
We found Max in his highchair being fed by Tia Lily.
I kissed him, not tired from labor, but exhilarated by birth, and then I introduced him to his brother.
A moment later I sunk into the rocking chair and nursed Jack while in view of Max. All was right in the world and the soft colors of sunrise disappeared to the brightness of day.
I call myself mamaguru.
Yesterday, the mama part of me wanted to make perfect pancakes for Jack’s birthday breakfast. I wanted to recite his favorite poem about pancakes and have that picture-perfect moment. The table was already set.
But all that was put on hold by the other part of me.
The me in me, my essence, spirit, soul, energy, life-force…that guru part of me was louder.
Look, I said to my children.
When something in this world catches your eye, look at it.
See.
It is the first lesson of everyday.
It is sunrise.
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