My house is filled with the fragrance of sweet italian sausage and olive oil potatoes. My brother's music is playing in the background. I shake my hips while I roll out the dough from my dad's cinnamon roll recipe. Two longing eyes peer just above the table, my littlest one's curious fingers make the sweetest imprints in my freshly rolled out dough. I fill mouths with spoons coated with a cinnamon, sugar, and buttery pleasure; they are happy. With ten minutes left, I slide the cinnamon rolls in the oven. The door bell rings. My heart skips a beat with excitement, "They're here," I tell the boys. We all run to the door, we can't open it fast enough.
We sip coffee, conversation is interrupted by our children. We pick up where we left off. Sometimes we forget where we left off, but it doesn't matter, we find enjoyment in each other's company, and our commonality with the constant demand of our little ones' wants and I'm reminded of two years ago when I met them. We all felt a little lost. Our legs were tired of treading water alone. Exhausted and worn out we found comfort in knowing we had similar thoughts and experiences. Our different walks in life had collided. Now we tread water together, taking turns holding each other up. Our legs have become stronger and our treading looks more like floating.
Our visit came to an end too fast. It always does. Satisfied children pile into their carseats. I waved goodbye and wondered how I became blessed with such beautiful women in my life.