She smiles softly to herself as she looks out the window at her boys playing in the yard. It’s her favorite time of day, just after dinner yet still daylight in the early summer evenings. The boys are fueled from dinner and ready for another round of outdoor time.

Soon it will be baths, books, and bedtime. Each boy will pick a book – or two – and take turns in “the lap,” as they call it. She loves when their little legs fold into her as they crisscross to fit in her lap, inhaling their clean, shiny hair, chubby little feet sticking out of their pajamas. One brother leans contentedly against her caught up in the magic of the book. He patiently waits for his turn in “the lap.” In unison, they will plead for one more, one more book each. She will relent because she can and because she wants to. Sometimes she creates voices as she reads the words of the different characters causing the boys to giggle from somewhere deep in their bellies.

Her smile softens again as she looks at the back of the boys’ heads while they play in a plastic green sandbox shaped like a turtle. She likes this vantage point as she can see their small heads. Nodding while they converse, using their own language, a combined imagination, remarkably agreeable today. She doesn’t want to disrupt their time together, but she aches to be with them. She takes some markers and paper to the picnic table waiting for them to finish before introducing a quiet activity before bedtime.

The boys continue their game in the sandbox. Creating roadways for their trucks, sometimes creating a crash complete with sound to mimic the noise of metal on metal, even though these trucks are plastic, yellow cabin with a red dumpster on the back. Matching, of course, to eliminate arguments. Wrapped up in their own world, she is content to watch their cherubic hands maneuver the trucks, nodding in unison as their narrative is created, made up on the spot, the only two people necessary for their make believe story to be true.

Finally, they sense her presence. Turning around, they charge the picnic table. Hugs with dirty hands and ruddy cheeks erupt as they vie to get closest to her. The boys settle across from her now where she can see their flushed cheeks and round faces. The older brother draws the accident which occurred in the sandbox while the younger brother draws the turtle-shaped box itself. Contemplative, she doodles flowers and the sun, writing the boys’ names along the edges of the paper.

When the daylight dims, she calls it a day. The boys reluctantly relent, the little one rubbing his deep brown eyes while the older one with the blonde hair helps put the markers back into the plastic bin. He wants one last race to the house, but his little brother doesn’t have the energy to join in. Charging toward the house, he raises his short arms over his head in victory when he gets to the door first.

As they make their way inside for the nighttime routine, baths, books, and bedtime, her smile reappears. She knows this is the best gift she can give them – one another.

This piece first appeared on my Substack page last week. I am reposting it here with a few minor edits. It depicts a soft, gentle day in the life of a stay-at-home mom, even though not all days were this peaceful. If you know, you know, but on this day, they were the best gift given.

Taking it back a few years to an article Scout wrote about problem solving as a mom. It’s what we do. Problem Solving: a Mom’s Perspective – scribingwithscout LLC