Waiting

My fingers rest on the keyboard, ready to type. They only wait for my brain to engage and give them instructions. 

His pencils and paper are lying there, next to me, ready for color. The moment he gets up from his nap, I know exactly what he'll do. He'll reach for the pencils and start drawing. We talked about it before he fell asleep. And he doesn't care if it's perfect or if he drew something wrong. I'm not sure he even realizes there's such a thing. He just draws and draws, papering our floor with his artistic renditions of Santa, Mommy, Daddy, and any moving vehicle you can name.

And they're fantastic. I couldn't do a better job, even if strangers might understand my attempts better. He works so hard, excitedly showing Ryan and I his efforts. I smile and laugh every time, thrilled he wants me to see what he's been doing.

And still my fingers sit... some tap nervously, anxious to be doing something. Impatient to be doing anything. Slowly the desire to produce the perfect result leaves me and my fingers start to move.