Intensity -- 9/365

Dear Trey,

Tonight, as I was laying next to you for a snuggle,

I was thinking about the previous fifteen minutes.

You had been playing on the computer

and I gave you a five minute warning about bedtime.

After the five minutes were up,

I sent you up to get ready for bed.

There was great wailing and gnashing of teeth

as you made your way upstairs to get ready for bed.

When I went in to tuck you in,

you tearfully explained as tears streamed down your face

that you had been building things to show Chris on the computer

but you hadn't been able to figure out how to save and now they were gone.

You were crushed.

a little Trey, getting in touch with his inner rage

Within a few minutes, the tears slowed

and your arm reached up and across my neck.

Your breathing slowed, your sniffling ceased

and a contented sigh made its way from your lips.

"I *love* you mommy,"

you murmured.

"You're the best mommy in the whole world.

I have the best mommy, and the best brother, and the best sister

and the best daddy and the best doggie in the whole world."

Just like that,

all was forgiven.

For you, my son, are like a summer storm in Florida.

It comes quickly,

rains with great intensity

with flashes of lightening and great booms of thunder.

You are a combination of shadow and light.

But just as quickly, 

the sun breaks through the clouds and gloom

and its rays brighten and warm everything they touch.

Within moments, all traces of the rain are dried up.

No lingering, no festering,

just a clean, fresh start.

How I love you, 

stormy son of mine.