Almost every morning my eight year old will walk into the kitchen in his underwear, like a 65 pound zombie, his hair a mess, his eyes half open. Then he'll stand right next to me, leaning on my thigh, until I hug him. I love that moment and those morning hugs. The boy doesn't need any words or food, he just needs a hug to help him make the transition from dream to reality. That moment is so fine because I know in an hour he'll be making fart noises with his arm pit and threatening to spit orange juice on his sister. But that ten seconds is the best, because it's so pure and warm. Honestly, I don't know if he's aware of what he's doing but it's the highlight of my morning because for once, I know, I can give him exactly what he needs.
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