We have two kids.

And one on the way.

They’re playing in the backyard,

touching worms

and dirtying their sneakers.

We’re arguing in the kitchen.

Back and forth about whether

blueberries or chocolate chips make

better ingredients in pancakes.

You tell me I’m wrong

and I point my finger at you.

Both of us, still equally stubborn.

Then you smear whipped cream on my nose,

and a laugh falls effortlessly.

You grab my face

and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Telling you to knock it off

but not meaning it one bit.

You laugh and kiss away

the whipped cream.

You stare at me

both of us, still smiling.

We melt into a kiss.

A kiss that makes life worth living.

A kiss that makes life, life.

We pull away as our youngest cries

running towards the house.

You beat me to him.

Crouching down you ask him.

What happened?

You don’t get irritated he’s crying

so hard he can’t get his words out.

Nor when his brother comes running up,

winded and full of an incessant story.

I try to calm him,

as you try to console the other.

We exchange a look,

both of us getting nowhere.

So I toss you the whipped cream.

You spray some into your mouth

and talk silly, he laughs, still wet with tears.

You ask him if he wants some too,

he does.

You spray some in his mouth

and tickle him.

His tears a thing of the past.

But his brother jumps on your back

reaching for the canister.

You don’t get angry,

you grab hold of him as you stand

so he doesn’t fall.

You spin around,

pretending to try to shake him loose.

And spray whipped cream onto his cheek

and accidentally into your hair.

The kitchen is full of laughter,

the tension evaporated as if it were never there.

Our youngest clings to my leg

as I plate our breakfast.

I notice a small scrape on his knee,

and cure it with my magical mom kiss.

Alright, alright.

I say, waving to you

for the whipped cream.

You set down our son, and I usher

the other to sit at the table.

You grab the syrup and bowl of eggs.

On your way to the table,

you pause, taking the time to press a kiss

into my temple.

I smile, my heart full.

You think I’m running my fingers

through your hair, the way you like it.

But I’m really just getting the

cream out from beside your ear.

We sit. We laugh. We eat.

Our Sunday morning routine.

Whipped cream smiley faces on

blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes.