Sitting in the chair, next to the nightlight, I realized my 2 year olds heart was laying against my heart. His head on my shoulder, his arms tucked in the way he sleeps. The rising and falling of his back against my hand, as his breath slowed for sleep. It was the end of another day. Another day passed, my child another day older. It was a day like any other- routines, meals, snacks, naps, play, tears, giggles, questions, teaching- a day that seemed at moments to last forever, and yet we made it to the setting sun and time propelled us into another age. A single day older. It doesn’t seem worth writing about- it was nothing monumental. And yet, it is. Being mindful of the mundane and the passing of time, however slow it might seem, is living. Knowing when something precious is happening to us, as it’s happening to us, is a value I fear we’re losing. They are moments no one else will see- and even if we write about them, they are experiences no one else will feel in the same capacity. And that is what makes it worthwhile. This is what makes living so beautiful. When we lose this feeling, that’s when we begin to lose ourselves.