Because the day is beautiful

C'è il sole.

I woke to a screaming child two nights ago. When I fumbled around for her in the dark my hand found wetness before the baby. And then it rested on a wet, screaming baby who wouldn't stop rubbing her eyes, which prompted more hysteria. I called for Mikey to turn on the lights, and when he did, I saw my Ada absolutely covered in vomit. Her clothes, her bed, her face, her hands. She looked more helpless than I've seen her look in a long time.

I scooped her up and stripped her down, all the while trying to get her to stop rubbing her eyes with messy hands. It will just make it worse, Sweetie, I tried to tell her.

I spent all day yesterday trying to get everything washed and dried before bedtime. I did six loads of laundry.

Today, there is sun. It's bright. If you stand still enough you can feel its warmth.

Today, I went into my bedroom to hang yet another load of laundry. Ada was happily jabbering as she sat under the drying rack—just one of her many personal hideouts. The sun streamed through the gauzy curtains. The house was warm and clean. Ada was content and well.

I stopped.

I stood still and felt how beautiful the day is. How beautifully simple my life is. It was one of those rare, but sweet moments; one of those moments that become fixed in our memories as a snap-shot of perfection. Pile up enough of them, and you have picture of heaven.

I don't think I stand still enough to feel enough. I'm working on that.