I feel it this morning—time is slipping away. The boys are too big, too old. I think they could be teenagers as I watch them all slowly wake and find each other. One at a time.

First the eldest—always my early riser. He gets it from me, which somehow makes me loathe his internal clock even more—a curse passed through DNA. He wakes each morning no later than 6am and pads to the bathroom. His flipper feet unable to employ subtlety and my mother trained ears to hear a pin drop on the other end of the house work together to serve as my alarm. He returns to his room, turns on the light and waits for the others to arrive. He bides his time with books, either read or listened to.

Soon someone else blinks into morning. The younger two share a room, which means this part is never predictable. It could be the youngest, eager to not be left out—peeking around the door to his older brother’s room, seeing if he’s missed anything. But lately it’s been the middle, stretching his way to the end of the top bunk and climbing down the ladder as a koala moves along the tree trunk. He always emerges from his room with the remnants of sleep and sometimes I’m tempted to intercede before he reaches his brothers door and wrap him in my arms to inhale the dreams of last night. He is at his most pliable right now. And love drips decadently from his every shuffle.

Once they are all three gathered in the eldest’s room, this is where the memories are made. Maybe not for them, though I hope they hold these mornings close in memory. But just in case it is one of the things they forget, I imprint it on my heart.

Three brothers, finding each other at the start of each day. The eldest sits on his bed, now that they are all gathered, he puts a book on for everyone to hear. One of them might crawl in with him and find the warmth of his sleep to snuggle into. The other will sit on the stuffed rocking chair that still remains, a relic from nursery days.

Sometimes someone will sit at the desk, playing with Legos. Building and unbuilding.  If I could tell them to master the unbuilding I would, because I have had to start over when I thought I was almost finished enough times that now I know it’s the failing, the falling apart, the pieces that don’t fit the way you hoped, that offers the most.

 They all wait, as they’ve been told, until 7am. And I think about all the people who warned me about wild boys. As they lounge, read, listen, love, snuggle, and wait patiently because their mom told them too.

 Today I’m ready for them as they file out of the room. Most mornings I allow hurry to distract me from this moment right now, but not today. Today I sit at the table sipping my coffee as they make room for me to enter their morning ritual. I think, time will not steal this moment.

 But then I wake up again tomorrow and I find them one day older. So, I do it all again.