"Sit, Mama," she says. 

And we sit. She with her sheepskin and I with my book. 

Silently she entwines her arms around my own. Her little body settles into sleep. I bend down to kiss her downy head, all blonde and wispy, wayward strands holdly tenaciously to the last bit of fading afternoon light. 

Notice this, I whisper to myself. And I do. And my heart breaks just a little bit because I know we are only just pausing for a moment.  We won't be here long. Still I am so grateful for now.

There are dry clothes to fold, soccer cleats to round up, crumbs on the Suburban seats. Certainly that is part of mothering. But, not all. There are also moments so achingly beautiful you forget to breathe. 

This was one of them.