Despite my shift from singlehood over eight years ago, I still go to bed far too late and still attempt to sleep in
H
is eyes glow in the dark, two bright blue orbs illuminating the waning darkness that blankets the bedroom. They are catlike, outlined by long lashes that make his impossibly magnetic eyes all the more alluring.
I love my toddler Chaim’s eyes. In my family, brown irises are standard; my eyes are considered unique due to their greenish tinge. Chaim has my husband’s genes, and I offer up silent thanks that at least one of my kids was bequeathed the blessing of startling, ocean blue lighting up their face.
I am awakened by those eyes now, boring into my own bland, hazel ones, which are currently caked in sleep. Chaim’s face is pressed against mine, his body leaning awkwardly sideways, and nose-to-nose, we stare each other down, determining who will break first in this war of wills.
“Imaaaa,” he repeats, for what must be the eighth time, based on the rising crescendo in his voice. “I waaaaaant cereaaaal!
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