Bigger picture: The in between

There was an epic diaper blowout in the morning and vomit at the dinner table.

And in between, I felt a tender moment.

It happened somewhere between my efforts at feeling like a confident mother as I strolled my slightly feverish 2-year-old (wearing only a shirt and diaper) through errands and fending off dry heaves while being sprinkled with spit-up.

Oh, right, the moment. It was this:

I got to hold my baby, who really isn't one anymore, while he sank into my shoulder, grew heavy and fell asleep. We were in the fabric store, his older brother selecting new flannel to repair his beloved bunny blanket, then telling the clerk: "A yard-and-a-quarter, please!"

It was sublime.

***

Also, there was stringy, fumy rubber cement on my fingers at art class and partially digested rodent parts scattered across my basement floor back at home.

Somewhere, between the messes, I witnessed budding artists sweeping brushstrokes into water-color winter landscapes with glossy dried-glue snowflakes.

Later, I watched these artists become biologists as they used plastic tweezers to pick apart the regurgitated bits of a barn owl's supper.

Andrew Wyeth was channeled and mouse skulls were placed next to vertebrae pieces and claws. Masterpieces were attempted and mysteries were solved.

It was amazing.

***

There were four loads of laundry, which created a mound atop our bed that I'm sure made Pike's Peak blush a little.

There were mismatched socks in the dozens; tiny wash cloths stuck to the legs of staticky fleece pajamas -- a shameful percentage of our freshly laundered wardrobes for just three day's of wear.

As Nick and I begrudgingly plunged our fingers into the pile and turned clumps of wadded t-shirts into tidy rectangles, we talked.

And between the stages of wretched pile-up and cleared-off quilt, the two of us connected at the day's end while the kiddos were quiet in their beds.

It was peaceful.

***

Not a single second of the day was beautiful, but it was good -- so good.

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