26 Minutes

It's 4:07. I nurse a newly awakened baby, helping him bridge the gap between Asleep and Awake. We talk quietly and smile. I change him, and when he protests, I point out a picture of a fish on the wall. We sing and blow raspberries and laugh.

It's 4:18. I spoon applesauce into the baby's mouth. It is promptly spit back out. Pudgy, dimpled hands smear it across the highchair tray--his first work of art. Illogically, I consider hanging it on the fridge even as I attack it with a wet rag.

It's 4:23. We chase the Dog until he escapes, hiding under the bed. We chase Yellow Cat until he unsheathes his claws, threatening to inflict yet another wound on the baby's overeager, but not overly gentle hands. We play patty cake. We sing a song about ducks that went swimming and never came back. (Why are children's songs so morbid?)

It's 4:28. We have a small battle of wills about whether the DVDs are appropriate playthings. It ends in tears of frustration, which are soothed by another song, this one about monkeys that get eaten by an alligator.

It's 4:31. The baby finds a shoe. The shoe is removed. The baby finds a wood chip. The wood chip is removed. The baby finds a cat toy. The cat toy is removed. The baby finds a remote. The remote is removed.

It's 4:32. It's 4:32? I get up, find my cell phone, and check the time again. Yes, it's 4:32. Either we're moving around the apartment at the speed of light or time has slowed down. It's 4:33.

(It occurs to me 2 hours later to send the universe a retroactive "Thank you" for allowing this applesauce-and-song filled afternoon to be my Everyday.)