I'm awakened by the smell of food cooking, wafting up to me from downstairs. As I carefully open an eye, I catch sight of Harry the Cat, still snoozing at my feet, a lazy smile on his face. I hear footsteps on the stairs and the sound of my husband's voice telling yet another cat, "Be quiet, Abby, Mommy's still sleeping." He walks into the room with a tray full of food, two cups, and a pot of coffee, wearing the silly SpongeBob boxers I gave him for his birthday, and a smile. As we watch the football pregame show and munch on breakfast, I find it hard to remember a time when this WASN'T our Sunday morning routine.
Only 11 more Sundays until you're home, Sweetheart. After almost 20 months apart, that's nothing. Two months, two weeks, and five days? I can do that in my sleep.