At the end of the bedtime ritual, I take about 10 seconds with each boy to sing the last line of their song and squeeze their hands on the last word. At one of those moments when I'm looking into their eyes, I can smile a special love smile right at them and they can't help but smile back. I can see the pure, unguarded adoration in their gaze and I feel a true rush better than any drug.
When they were newborns and small babies, I would sometimes experience an even more intense physical sensation. I told Keith it felt like I was on drugs and he said, "You are. It's all the hormones."
At three years post-partum, I doubt it's hormones. This isn't the sparkly rush of first romance. It's not the deep thud of gratitude when a loved one returns from a long trip. It's a melting, spreading, softening. It's eye-watering, cheek tingling.
I think it's children. I think it's the lack of cynicism, or irony, or injury. How long will this last?
I wish I could bottle it. Or, better yet, spray it into the atmosphere.