I begin days like today--days that seemingly stretch before me--and I falter to find the purpose in it. With nobody "big" around, I wonder why I should make a meal... why I should light that candle... why that bed should be made... why, why, why. What difference does it make?

And then my little girl--my precious soon-to-be-2-years-old girl--climbs up on the couch next to me. She tucks her chubby, dimpled arm inside of mine and leans her soft curls against my body. In spite of poor English and around the stubborn pacifier that is making its appearance all too often for my preference, she says, Love you, Mama, in her Bronwyn-girl way.

Later, I am holding Jackson close, rocking him to sleep. He is being stubborn about giving in, though his eyes are tired and red-rimmed. He reaches round fingers up and grabs my chin, smiling widely at me--a smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes.

In it all--in the midst of the chaos of drumrolls and fussing babies and tumbles that scrape knees (or rub-burn chins, more commonly)--these moments leap out, and a small sob catches in my throat.

It will be gone so quickly.

I already know this.

And in remembering this, the why's disappear and I only want to make this moment, this day, as special as it can be. There might not be a "big" person around to take note of how the dinner table is set, or that I vacuumed before the meal as well as after, or the way the bed was made with the throw pillows placed where they are pleasing to the eye, but it all adds up to childhood memories. I know this; after all, I was a child, too.

It will be gone so quickly... they will all be gone so quickly.