Peanutbutter Kisses
by Merry Marinello © 2003
Softly she steals, my little kitten of a girl Anna, her footed-pajama feet padding
like paws beside my bed. She smooths my hair ever so gently and wraps her
four-year-old arms around my head, and we sigh together. I look into her bright
blue eyes and her sunshiny smile that says, “I love you mom.” I can think of no
other way I’d rather wake up.
He hops on one foot and strums his air guitar to his favorite computer-game
song, “Ewww, Mud!” and then begins mock washing from nose to toes. His
deep brown eyes sparkle and dance, inviting everyone to join him and delight in
the fullness of life. Then at night he prolongs my leaving his fish-blanketed
bedside with "one more hug?" and the inevitable, “Mom, can I tell you
something?” I wouldn’t miss one of his six-year-old quirky questions or
squirrelly squeezes; I can think of no other way I’d rather end my day.
Inbetween the two come the tussles and spills and the some-days-incessant
calling for “Moooommm!” The days when I long to complete a thought, when I
want time and space and sound to be on my terms. The days when I fight myself
to remember the true character of love.
I sometimes hear a scream from my bedroom, and I go to ask my husband Dave
if I can help him. Pain pills I can proffer, but there is no potion to take away his
yearning for the years lost to chronic Lyme. Yet I rejoice that he longs for the
time lost—it’s a sign he’s improving, thinking, engaging in life. There was a time
when we couldn’t have a five-minute conversation without him passing out—only
to come to and not remember anything. A time when the smell of cooking made
him run from the house, the scent of the kids eating plain rice-cakes sent him to
another room—otherwise he risked a dizzying headache.
But now I enjoy the sweet smell of his arm on my shoulder, and revel when my
touch doesn’t make him flinch as it has these last three pain-filled years. Now
we begin to dream again, begin to risk thinking that one day he might be in
remission, begin to wonder, where do we go from here? He’s the man of my
dreams—there was no one else I would rather have married, and so no one else
I’d rather be with now.
Sometimes I get lost in the questions. Lying on our pine-green couch, I think of
all I have to do—the laundry longing to be folded on my guestroom bed, the
dishes daring to pile up by my sink, the kids needing training, the bills—God how
is it all going to work out? And in those times I don’t hear her, for softly she
steals… But I smell her peanutbuttery lips, sweet and sticky, and she kisses first
one cheek and then the other. Kisses and mud-flinging, screams and dreams—
they keep my feet on the ground. I don’t have the past. I don’t have the future.
I have peanutbutter kisses. And I like what I have.
About the Author
back to Hope Stories
by Merry Marinello © 2003
Softly she steals, my little kitten of a girl Anna, her footed-pajama feet padding
like paws beside my bed. She smooths my hair ever so gently and wraps her
four-year-old arms around my head, and we sigh together. I look into her bright
blue eyes and her sunshiny smile that says, “I love you mom.” I can think of no
other way I’d rather wake up.
He hops on one foot and strums his air guitar to his favorite computer-game
song, “Ewww, Mud!” and then begins mock washing from nose to toes. His
deep brown eyes sparkle and dance, inviting everyone to join him and delight in
the fullness of life. Then at night he prolongs my leaving his fish-blanketed
bedside with "one more hug?" and the inevitable, “Mom, can I tell you
something?” I wouldn’t miss one of his six-year-old quirky questions or
squirrelly squeezes; I can think of no other way I’d rather end my day.
Inbetween the two come the tussles and spills and the some-days-incessant
calling for “Moooommm!” The days when I long to complete a thought, when I
want time and space and sound to be on my terms. The days when I fight myself
to remember the true character of love.
I sometimes hear a scream from my bedroom, and I go to ask my husband Dave
if I can help him. Pain pills I can proffer, but there is no potion to take away his
yearning for the years lost to chronic Lyme. Yet I rejoice that he longs for the
time lost—it’s a sign he’s improving, thinking, engaging in life. There was a time
when we couldn’t have a five-minute conversation without him passing out—only
to come to and not remember anything. A time when the smell of cooking made
him run from the house, the scent of the kids eating plain rice-cakes sent him to
another room—otherwise he risked a dizzying headache.
But now I enjoy the sweet smell of his arm on my shoulder, and revel when my
touch doesn’t make him flinch as it has these last three pain-filled years. Now
we begin to dream again, begin to risk thinking that one day he might be in
remission, begin to wonder, where do we go from here? He’s the man of my
dreams—there was no one else I would rather have married, and so no one else
I’d rather be with now.
Sometimes I get lost in the questions. Lying on our pine-green couch, I think of
all I have to do—the laundry longing to be folded on my guestroom bed, the
dishes daring to pile up by my sink, the kids needing training, the bills—God how
is it all going to work out? And in those times I don’t hear her, for softly she
steals… But I smell her peanutbuttery lips, sweet and sticky, and she kisses first
one cheek and then the other. Kisses and mud-flinging, screams and dreams—
they keep my feet on the ground. I don’t have the past. I don’t have the future.
I have peanutbutter kisses. And I like what I have.
About the Author
back to Hope Stories
© 2004 Dave and Merry Marinello, all rights reserved.
Welcome! Thanks for visiting our little "harbor" amid life's storms. We hope you
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
Peanutbutter Kisses
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Hope is My Anchor
Strength for your soul amid life's storms
Strength for your soul amid life's storms