A drooling baby walking toward me with outstretched arms, giggling with each wobbly step.
Little girls painting outside, the sun shining down on them and their creation, a muddy cloud of colors.
Baking jam-filled muffins in the kitchen. Squeezing lemons and limes to make homemade lemonade and then sipping it together, lips puckering at its tartness.
Praying a decade of the rosary for a friend who lost her baby and for my husband, their daddy.
Writing and illustrating a “book” called The Mystery by Madeline Wicker in which a big giant terrifies a town.
A dance party in the living room. Blond hair and silky nightgowns swirling. Baby laughing. Mom sweating. Calories burning. No need to exercise tonight.
Stories by candlelight. The flame flickering. A child’s heartbeat fluttering against my arm as she leans into me. One small hand on my leg. A head on my shoulder. The smell of coconut shampoo.
A nest of blankets and stuffed animals. Soft sighs on either side of me. Little girls cuddled close and sleeping. I slip away. I write letters to my daughters in the journals I keep for them. I want them to remember this day. I want to remember this day.
Now it’s time for me to join them, to find sleep. But not before giving thanks for a good day, a rich day, an ordinary, extraordinary day where I let my children set the agenda. I should let them fill our days more often. They’re much better planners than I am, probably because they don’t plan at all.