On more occasions than not, I stumble into my weekends. A million things to do zip by my brain and yet, I sit still and watch the time be wasted. As much as I want things done, I don't want to do any of them. I just want them done.
I crawl up the stairs from bed, having slept in, because the devil (or angel, depending on perspective) on my shoulder told me I deserve it, and I believed them, to find Owen going full tilt. I make my coffee and contemplate my day, knowing full well, half of my ideas won't get done and watch Owen play.
I'm in awe of him. He leaps into his days. Bounces from bed with ideas seemingly carried from his dreams. One foot touches the floor and he's a lion, a soldier, a .... Ordinary objects become extraordinary and he's traveled through time and around the world before I've finished my coffee. All the while my butt remains planted. My mind unable to decide with ease where I should start on my long list of chores. So it gives up and I sit here.
Where did that go? That boundless energy? The eagerness to greet the day? I must have vacuumed it up by accident because I haven't seen it around in a long time.