It’s 7am and I’m in bed lying on my side, watching our 14 month daughter Lyra sleep.
There’s something quite magical about sleeping pets and babies. If you know, you know.
Her eyes open and look straight into mine. She smiles.
I smile back and we lie there for an exquisite moment.
Then she laughs so I’m obliged to tickle her.
This.
This is it.
~~~
“๐๐ฐ ๐ญ๐ข๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ ๐ฐ๐ง๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ค๐ฉ;
๐ต๐ฐ ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ค๐ต ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ช๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ๐ช๐จ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ฆ
๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ง๐ง๐ฆ๐ค๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ค๐ฉ๐ช๐ญ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฏ;
๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ค๐ช๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต ๐ค๐ณ๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ค๐ด
๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ต๐ณ๐ข๐บ๐ข๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ง๐ข๐ญ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ง๐ณ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ด;
๐ต๐ฐ ๐ข๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ค๐ช๐ข๐ต๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ข๐ถ๐ต๐บ, ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ง๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด;
๐ต๐ฐ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ข ๐ฃ๐ช๐ต ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ต๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ,
๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ฃ๐บ ๐ข ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ๐ต๐ฉ๐บ ๐ค๐ฉ๐ช๐ญ๐ฅ, ๐ข ๐จ๐ข๐ณ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ต๐ค๐ฉ
๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ข ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ค๐ช๐ข๐ญ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ;
๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ช๐ง๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ด๐ช๐ฆ๐ณ
๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ข๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ๐ฅ.
๐๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ช๐ด ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ด๐ถ๐ค๐ค๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฅ.”
– Bessie A. Stanley
(often misattributed to Emerson)
PS.
The photo is the nearest thing I have to capturing the oxytocin rush of that moment.
