Nathan likes to talk. A lot. Granted, he can’t say any actual words yet, but he tries. He’s quite the chatterbox in the evenings, usually right before bed when he has a full belly and has gone through his bedtime routine of a diaper change, reading one of his favorite stories, and singing a song or two. Right now, he likes Paddington Cleans Up; Wynken, Blynken, and Nod; and Chicken Little.
He likes to sit, or should I say lazily recline, in my lap and hold the edge of the book with one hand while pointing and grabbing at the illustrations with the other. I sing a variety of songs to him ranging from You are My Sunshine to our National Anthem. He likes them all and will usually bounce along with my attempts to sound on key, chubby cheeks jiggling to the rhythm.
That boy must have a sense of humor to deal with me singing. I used to sing quite well when I was a younger… but years of smoking cigarettes affected my voice.
Twelve years, to be exact.
I know, I know, what was I thinking?
I’ll tell you. I thought I was cool, and once I started smoking, I couldn’t stop.
However, as of right now, I have not had a cigarette in 491 days and 14 hours… saving us approximately $1,942.13 and avoiding around 8,632 of those oh-so-relaxing, sweet smelling, mouth watering, stress relieving cancer sticks. At my worst, I smoked three packs a day. The smoke I emitted on a daily basis rivaled that of a racing freight train. At my best, I smoked a pack a day.
Now, even after over a year of being smoke free, every time I smell smoke, I have to fight the urge to smoke one. My brain says, Oh just one more… it won’t hurt. Just one. My soul says If you want to live long enough to take over the world, then you’d better not. Since I prefer world domination with Nathan by my side, I fight the urge.
I am stronger than the cigarette. I have my son and our precious conversations to live for.