To Feed

It seems I'm always feeding them something.
Rowan's a growing boy and the 22 pancakes he ate for breakfast have worn off an hour later and he needs a little something.
My husband likes a good dinner. And breakfast. And lunch.
So I live in the kitchen, wearing a cute apron, and we all wax plump.

I sit at the computer and send out emails until I am interrupted by a girl toppling into a chair. I glance over and see Avonlea, sprawled on upholstery of red velvet. My eyes take in a book laying next to her, one I had been reading from the night before. I don't hesitate, but jump into the chair next to her. I pull her close and grab the book in a single action.

"Have I ever told you the story of how I got this book?"
Her eyes glow and she answers, "No. How?"
"Once, when I lived in England, I had a friend...."

And I tell her the quirky story of my friend seeing this book on the bed of a deceased patient in a mental hospital in England and taking it to give me. This book. And I show her the inscription and the date, July 1939.

Dave comes home then and smiles at his two girls cuddled up.
He says, "When's dinner?"

I start to stand and she pulls me back.
"I've got to feed Daddy, Avonlea."
"But you're feeding me words."

Ahhh.
I put my apron on and I smile.
It seems I'm always feeding them something.