Life isn't all flowers and sausages.

Every once in a while, Harper hates life, which reminds me how great life truly is. She doesn't like my cooking. She doesn't like my games. She doesn't like her daddy, but screams bloody murder when he leaves the room or goes to work. She doesn't want to nap or go to bed. And she pitches an unGodly fit to let us know that, which leaves me physically shaky with a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. Yes. Clearly, I have this Mom thing cracked. No. No. After a day like that, I'm cracked.

Fortunately, for the sake of the proliferation of the human race, most days are like today.

She starts babbling at 6:15 a.m. instead of 5:15. We play crazy games and I hear big belly laughs until it's time to get dressed. And when we get dressed, she picks out an outfit and doesn't feverishly claw at its embellishments and frills like they're going to come to life and swallow her up. She chooses a bow for her ever-lengthening wisps of blonde hair and actually leaves it in. And then we go to Gymboree. She and her friend Charlotte lie on a parachute together and giggle and roll. Then she takes a nap. Peacefully. And she eats. And she poops (parents will identify with this victory. otherwise, it will be gross. sorry). And we play outside. And she talks to me and I understand. And at bedtime, she curls into a motionless ball in my lap with her blankie and she lets me sing to her and hug her and kiss her until I tear myself away. When I lay her down, I hear a sleepy little "Night night, Momma. Sweep tight. Wuv you" and I shut the door, aching for 6:15 a.m.