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The Game is Changing - Amanda Magee
I still tiptoe into their rooms to watch them sleep, sometimes by the eastern sun filtered through Briar’s pink sheers, others by gossamer beams of moonlight sneaking through the leaves to kiss Avery’s face. Stories at bedtime are tender, soft pads of little fingertips trace circles on my legs, or pull ringlets toward rosy lips and point to beloved characters. The hazy moments after lifting the girls from their beds we cuddle, little cheeks resting on my chest, my fingers slipping through the silky tendrils that catch on their eyelashes. It is bliss, and my love for them threatens to eclipse all else, until play time. To be clear on playtime, it is the time between 6am and 7pm. Thirteen hours, interrupted only twice…
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