8:53pm.

The daily tradition of our evening consists of dinner, sweats, dishes, winding down time, bath time, and bedtime (for morgan), then I mosey around our quiet house tidying each room. I listen to the hum of the dishwasher. I shut blinds, turn on lamps, fold blankets, sweep floors, and pick up board books, measuring cups, bowls, tractors, trucks, farm animals, passeys, sippy cups and mismatched shoes strewn about in every room across the house.

Tonight, as I was bending down for the 15,000th time today to pick up the 15,000th item of play, I held in my hand, a green and yellow tractor with black wheels. It was surprisingly the only toy left in our bedroom. I looked around the room to find that all else was in its place. It felt nice, sort of perfect. Then, as if on cue, I, at once, realized that if I were to fast forward a few years, to a day when my house is always tidy, to a day when everything stays in its comfortable, pretty place, I would find myself longing for tractors left on the floor and board books left open to favorite pages.

Life with a little one is fleeting, and so precious. I must remember this.