Bigger Picture Moment: The Possibility for Sweetness

I've had a post brewing in my head for a day and a half.  Something about time passing and blessings taken for granted and never being able to recapture a moment.  And the moment I had in mind was simple: both girls, clamoring around me in the kitchen, desperate to be my helpers.  Desperate to do whatever magical thing I'd decided to do in the kitchen, even if all that means is to watch me peel potatoes. 

They wanted to be close; active; helping.  And I couldn't ever imagine a time that they'd rather not be close; active; helping.  But I knew it would come in the years ahead of us.  If appreciating my sweet girls over a pile of potato peels was what it took to savor our moment, I was happy to say I'd done it. 

So this post, it wasn't writing itself.  It was a bare outline.  The possibility for sweetness.  The essence of an inspiration.  But I didn't have a moment to write it: breakfast -- ballet lessons -- lunch -- naptime.

Naptime.  I'd write it at naptime. 

Only, at that hour my biggest girl was clinging to me.  I'd tucked a frazzled toddler into bed already, and Mia just needed some closeness.  She's been needing it all week for some reason.  (Will those reasons ever present themselves clearly?)  Really, I had no choice but to crawl into bed beside her.  She wouldn't be sleeping, I knew that already, but a snuggle became important in the middle of the day.  I curled myself around her while she experimented with the best of positions.  She rolled and slumped and clung and stretched.  Finally, she rested with her head buried in my neck, her arms tucked into my chest.  She made little clicks and swishes with her mouth, because the silence was just too boring to be acceptable. 

Outside, the sky was grayish dark.  An endless morning of rain wasn't budging, and fat drops blew against the window on lazy gusts of sometimes-wind.  Platter-plunker-splink.  Miles away from our cozy bed, the bass of a thundery echo tumbled through the sky. 

I drifted off with my nose buried in Mia's coconut-scented hair.  I started a dream, even, in that quarter-hour of snuggling.  Then, Mia was bored with my smothering embrace.  She wanted to play quietly; she'd had quite enough of a rest.

So I didn't write that post about simply experienced moments and capturing time which is ripe with the possibility of sweetness after all.

I lived it, instead.  It smelled like rain and coconuts and attachment.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful.  Please join Hyacynth at Undercover Mother for more moments, and to share your own!