a hundred random Thursday nights.

Little Bear put his arms around Mother Bear. He said, “Mother Bear, stop fooling. You are my Mother Bear and I am your Little Bear, and we are on Earth, and you know it. Now may I eat my lunch?” “Yes,” said Mother Bear, “and then you will have your nap. For you are my little bear, and I know it.”

The summer after high school, I worked at Regal Cinemas for $5.15 an hour in my itchy maroon vest with my multiple arm burns from the popcorn machine. Regal had a monthly (I think) CD that you had to play for the duration of the entire month. It was 10 or 12 songs that you would be sick of by the end of the first day, but still have to listen to for the rest of the month. I remember that we swung from loving the mostly-80s retro hits, to detesting them with all our might, and back to loving them again (but in a more unhinged way the second time around). There were days when I came in ready to sing four-part harmonies behind the counter with my popcorn-sweeping cronies to “Heaven Is A Place On Earth,” and days when it grated on my nerves way worse than any sugary pop song before or since.

All of that too-lengthy prelude just to say: Heaven really is a place on earth. Right now it is for me, anyway.

Heaven is guffawing with your work colleagues over a seriously weird picture sent in by a user. And duking it out with a colleague in a friendly battle of wits. And being proud to see a colleague learning quickly, and shining, with very little guidance.

Heaven is shutting your laptop and scooting off to the daycare, and watching your daughter’s little head pop up gleefully when the teachers say “Morella, your mommy’s here.”

Heaven is squeezing her little plump legs into her dance tights, and pulling her wispy hair into a bun, and seeing her wince at the biting wind (the same way you do), and making sure she has a snack for the car ride.

Heaven is quietly getting a few more things done for work in the waiting room, while other moms laugh and someone’s infant plays with a stray piece of paper on the floor.

Heaven is watching her head dart back and forth as she looks for you when she gets out of class, then seeing the recognition and relief wash over her face like lightning as she rushes over to show you the sticker she earned.

Heaven is sharing a hot dog and fries on the way home, at the place where she insists on sitting in one of the tall swirly chairs and wiggling back and forth, over and over, as she waits for her meal.

Heaven is reading Little Bear with her head on your shoulder, even though you read it last night. And the night before that.

Heaven is lying down with her for a few minutes, as a compromise after she says she “doesn’t want to sleep.” Feeling her hold tightly to your arm as you review the events of the day and talk about the fun that was had, the towers that were built, the feelings that were hurt, and the fries that were eaten.

Heaven is singing “On Top of Spaghetti” to her as you leave the room slowly, by request.

Heaven is clacking away at the keyboard in your candlelit room as your cat kneads the ridiculous pink fluffy bedclothes that cover you.

Sappiest mom post ever! But it was a good Thursday and I’m all out of sarcasm right now. For a dose of much better sarcasm than I could deliver anyway, go over to It’s Like They Know Us.


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