Memento mori

I preface this vignette today by saying that I may be writing it to feel better -- to remember the (somewhat) sweet amidst the gong show that today has been, starting with the 4am declaration by my sweet and only daughter that if I didn't lay down next to her bed and hold her hand until she fell asleep, she would scream until everyone woke up. This lady understand when she has someone over a barrel.  I acquiesced -- only to wake up at 6am to Judah towering over me, demanding, "WHY ARE YOU IN OUR ROOM, DAD? You need to leave."    And that was the high point so far. Ugh.

Anyways, as seems so often, a rough day can be redeemed by the conclusion thereof.  And so three nights ago after yet another brutal waking stretch for the urchins, we settled in at 7:00 (ok, maybe 7:25), took a deep breath, had some silent time, sang our hearts out to Jesus, and were settling in to bed when we came upon the very last part of the day -- blessings.  I generally place my hands on their hands, make the sign of the cross and ask for something on my heart for them -- peaceful dreams, kindness, ability to look each other in the eye without attempting to blacken said eyes, etc.  As I went to kiss him and head out, Elijah grabbed me and started kissing my face. (This won't be embarrassing later in life or anything.) I backed up quickly -- emotions aren't really my thing, and my sense of personal space may be overdeveloped.  "Sometimes people like it if you give them one kiss instead of one hundred.

"But, Dad," he protested," I just love you so much that I want to kiss you as long as we are alive."

My heart thawed.

He continued," Or at least as long as you're alive, Dad.  We both know you're going to die first. Love you."

Memento mori.