home is where beds are made and butter is added to toast

It's those mornings where my husband kisses me goodbye and tells me it's going to be a late night that seem the dreariest. It's anticipation for bedtime -- after the dinner has been eaten, the teeth have been brushed and flossed, the stories have been read and the pajamas have been adorned -- when an overtired little boy fights sleep with pleas for dada. I wake those mornings with a dull sense of dread, of guilt, of being absolutely sure it's even more muggy and humid than usual this Florida summer. Oh, this summer. Where are the days going? And yet once Ethan wakes up, shouting over the crib bars that he's ready for morning and pancakes and feeding cereal to the cats, there is no room left for anything but feelings of what it means to feel whole.

Each day has seemed a whirlwind lately with playdates and playgroups and lessons and breakfasts (and lunches and dinners) and doctor appointments and just enjoying each day for what it is: a chance to make memories. A chance to revel in the subtle scent of calendula on Ethan's soft skin, his milky breath in your face as he gnaws on your nose, the way his nervous hands let go from the surface they're holding onto for support and he stands there with a look of terror bred with pride in his eyes. It's spaghetti and meatballs for lunch with extra tomato sauce, a kiss from a Golden Retriever at the pet store, a daddy tall enough to reach the waterfall in the deep-end of the pool.

Today was one of those late nights where soft whimpers for dada played through the baby monitor continuously and then more infrequently until Ethan couldn't possibly stay awake any longer. It was a day we said goodbye to a dear friend before she left the country for an entire month. It was a day of black beans and rice for dinner -- Ethan's favorite -- with just the right amount of cheese on top. It was a day for splashing in the sink after dinner until the countertops and mirror were covered in beads of water.

The days are passing by too quickly but what full days they are, the kind of days where you go to sleep fulfilled and happy and replaying the events of the day in your mind with laughs you manage to let slip out loud, things and places and smiles and stories you never want to forget. Except for maybe the story about how Ethan took his diaper off in the middle of the night last night and, well, you can imagine how the rest of this story goes by the time morning rolled around. Maybe we'll let that one slide.