It’s a wonderful, magical life 

Wednesday begins with a glimmer.
I strike a match and watch it burn 
away the darkness. Next, I reach 
for my journal. Thoughts pour 
out of my pen and fill pages.

While I scribble, the tick tick tick
of the dresser clock falls silent. Only sunlight — 
slanting in through the blinds — breaks the spell.

The clock reads 7 a.m.
Suddenly, I’m dashing,
dressing, 
rinsing,
running towards my children to rouse them.

Our day unfolds 
with hot coffee and buttered toast, 
school drop off and a package pickup.

Once we’re home,
Paw Patrol plays on the TV for my youngest,
Dishes clink, steam rises, I exhale 
after my chores are finished.

I drive us to our third place — the library.

My new hold has arrived, plus
there are toys and stories to explore.
We choose books on potty training 
and Christmas. Soon Adam needs his nap, 
so we drive and drive until he gives in
to sleep.

Parked safely at a nearby forest preserve,
I recline the driver’s seat and dive into my reading. 
The stories I love most are mirrors; they reflect 
back blemishes and beauty marks, many of which 
I would have missed it if not for the author’s insights.

“Mommy!”
An hour has passed and Adam’s calling me.
I come up for air and announce 
“We’re going home for lunch, 
a dog walk and school pickup.”

Ever since I began staying home with my children
I relish the rhythm of school pickup — 
it may be my only chance to connect 
with another mom all day, to listen 
and be heard, to linger, to belong.

What’s more, I love being there for Jack,
I love that I’m the one who gets to pick up my son.

At home, Adam builds a MagnaTile house for his stuffies
and I make Jack’s favorite snack: 
shredded cheese on tortilla chips warmed
for 30 seconds in the microwave. My mom
made these for me when I was a child.

Between bites of nachos, Jack copies spelling words. 
“What are you doing?” Jack asks, looking up from his work.
“I’m taking your picture — I might write about this. 
Is that okay?” I answer, my heart skipping a beat. 
“Oh sure,” he says, his pale blue eyes twinkling.
“I love when you write about me.”

I feel the pinprick of tears behind my eyes.
I want to hug him, to let him know 
how much his words mean to his writer-mother.

All I can muster is, “Thank you, honey.”

Soon, it’s time to cook dinner.
I boil water and reach for the pasta.
Jack plays on his iPad; Adam watches more Paw Patrol.
I used to feel guilty about this screen time, 
then my mom told me that both she and her mom played television
for their kids while they cooked. That made me feel relieved.

My husband comes home.
His presence is like lighting a fire — he makes everything more cozy.
Over dinner, we tell our boys we have a surprise for them:
We’re taking them to the Christmas circus
TONIGHT!
They squeal. Fed and bursting with jingly excitement,
we all scurry out the door into a world of ice and snow.

Traffic is bad, but once we arrive,
the boys are bewitched.
Acrobats fly high.
Performers balance, streeeeeetch and juggle.
Wonder washes over Jack and Adam’s faces.
I catch my husband’s eye: we took a simple
school night and made it sparkle.

Hours later, we’re home. The boys are snug 
in their beds. My husband and dog doze nearby.
Phone in hand, I sit up in bed and scroll
my camera roll. Images of our comings and goings
fill my screen. They’re simple *and* stunning.

While we rent this apartment and search for  
a new, affordable house, I view our time here as
a hallway between one closing door and another opening.
I can’t see the next door yet.
Like Mary, I’m filled with longing
for the future.

And yet
amid a season when wishes and wants abound,
these photos urge me to claim
contentment. Each image whispering,
Do you see it?
Do you see the magic disguised as mundane?
Aren’t you lucky?
Isn’t this life wonderful?

// I wrote this blog post in response to the prompt #ordinarymagic — an invitation to find the sparkle in our typical days using photos and words. My post detailed my day on Wednesday, December 4, 2024. For variations on this prompt, visit the blogs of Jessica Folkema, Melissa Kutsche and KImberly Knowle-Zeller. To write with us, use #ordinarymagic and tag us in your post.