Perhaps

But what is left for us to do anyway?

Between birth and death, there is a myriad of hopes, people to love, breaths to be inhaled, thoughts to be thought.

Last night, as I read Jip & Janneke stories to Son#3 who was well-chuffed with falling into the big-boys-who-can-handle-bedtime-stories category, I could only look at his happy face and love him. 

Love him.

Despite his naughtiness of the day (plucking paintings off walls, tipping out containers full of toys, repeatedly, daily pulling cushions off couches).

And the same goes for Son#2 - also naughty in his Spiderman suit, and Son#1 who stayed in his pajamas all day playing computer games.

The husband, also loved, who sawed off tree branches and played with blocks together with Son#2 and #3.

They all whine and throw tantrums but I get kissed and hugged so many times a day, I'm sometimes astounded that someone actually loves me of all damn people.

My mother, on her way to Cape Town as I write, taking the reins and not falling into a state of paralysis like her daughter.

My brave mother.

My rendition of living loud, wide and tall is a quiet, toned-down version.

But it's beautiful.