Kissing Snow White.

She comes down the stairs into my office wearing a Snow White dress. She should have been in bed two hours ago, but she isn’t. Despite the fact we spend an hour and a half commuting together every day, we haven’t really talked much lately.

Life has been completely overwhelming for about a month now. For lots of reasons.

Her mommy hasn’t really been around a lot lately. She comes downstairs to complain about the fact that Daddy won’t get up and find her ballerina slippers. I explain to her that it’s because she’s supposed to be sleeping right now, not playing dress up.

“Mommy, can I sit on your lap?”

I gratefully pull her onto my lap and enfold her in my arms. We sit silently for a few long moments. I barely even noticed the silence, we’re just here. Together. Her hair against my cheek. Her eyelashes are long. Her hands are getting bigger. These things I think, then IĀ  suddenly come to my senses and appreciate the fact that my three year old is sharing silence with me. No small miracle.

Her little hand reaches up to my cheek and turns my face toward hers.

“Mommy, will you kiss me?”

One sweet, warm, extended kiss–a kiss that while simple in act emotionally carries the culmination of hopes and dreams of what motherhood would be, the accumulated effect of a few years of falling in love with the same person daily as her spirit unfolds like the most terrific of gifts designed for you by The Master Creator, the power of an endless list of good intentions, and whispered prayers, and fears unspoken, and hopes, and dreams, and desires, and wishes for All Good Things as they stretch out for the decades of her life unwinding, bursting, twirling up the in the stars–all this packed into one sweet, warm extended kiss on a tender face that really does taste sweet to her mother’s lips. A kiss that only a parent can give to their child. A kiss that looks like any other to anybody watching.

But it’s a moment that I will treasure forever.

This is how I know that it’s going to last.

The other day John brought home the hugest bag of Tooti Fruitis I have ever seen.

God, I love that man.

That we need a ginormous bag of Tooti Fruities has nothing to do with the fact that we try to hide it from the girls, wait for them to go to bed, and when they’re asleep we pour ourselvesĀ  helpings so large that we might as well be eating them out of troughs.

No, it does not.

Don’t judge me.