Sometimes I am silenced by the mundane. Jason will call to say he is on his way home from work and ask how my day has been. I'll manage to say little more than, "Fine," and he'll think that something is wrong. But nothing will be wrong, I'll have just had another day, one of the many than run together and seem so long individually but pass by so quickly together as a week, a month, a year. Just another mundane day.
You know the days--when the baby won't be put down, the three year old asks, "Are we there yet?" as you start the car and you wonder if you even had breakfast as you're missing lunch . When it seems everything spills--flour on the flour, milk on the carpet, spit up on your otherwise clean shirt. There are a thousand, "No, no, no's," and "Please, don't put your foot on your brother," and, less kindly, "Quit stepping on his head!" And it is all so normal, so mundane, so-so. A good day? A bad day? Just a day.
But, if you're lucky there comes a moment when the baby is asleep, in bed no less, and the three year old is having rest-time in her room and you manage to finally get dinner started and have a few minutes of welcome quiet. And then the three year old emerges from her room, proudly, having dressed herself in another great outfit:
And later you get to hang out with this guy, and be the lucky recipient of some of the best smiles ever:
And that day that was just a day? It becomes today. A day I don't ever want to forget.
