. On Perfect Days .

When I was really little, I can remember being on my grandparent's back patio. My Papa was giving me kisses, and his mustache tickled my cheek. I squirmed away on his lap, laughing, and he pulled me close for another kiss. I turned my head. 

Couldn't give those away so freely. I didn't want to run out.

Then, I went around the entire table handing out hugs. Not kisses though. Had to save those up. In my sweet innocence, I believed that you only were born with a certain number of them. And when you gave them all out? That's it. You couldn't possibly give out another. 

I think about that afternoon often. What if it were true? What if we were only allotted a certain number of things? What if we were only guaranteed a certain number of family dinners? A certain number of Sunday mornings in old churches with warm sun in the stained glass? A certain number of hugs, kisses, and soft moments? 

A certain number of perfect days? 

This weekend, The Boyfriend and I loaded up The General and headed south to his momma's house. The General, for some unknown reason, has dubbed her Jo Jo, so I've decided to roll with it for ... the rest of ever. And it was a perfect day. 

The sun shined all day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. And there were chickens, horses tame enough to feed at the fence, dogs, kitties, birds, a riding lawn mower, and a walk across a pasture that finally tired my two-year-old out. He learned to drive, what it meant to give birds a bath, and how to get the mail across the highway.

I put him in his carseat at seven p.m., in his pajamas, knowing that he was about three breaths away from passing out for the night. At nine p.m., I was still driving, and he was still in the backseat talking about Jo Jo's Farm, and asking if we were going to go back in the morning. In between longer, and longer yawns, my sweet boy talked and talked and talked. And then - fell asleep a mile from home. 

As I carried him upstairs and straight to bed, I realized that he still smelled like fresh air and the farm. I thought, "My God ... THIS is what they mean when they say my cup runneth over." 

Here's to perfect days. Bright, shining, perfect days that you'll remember forever. And if there are only a certain few that we get? May they settle you just like they do me. 

xoxo, B.