Every day is all there is

He does all the things, runs and wonders and devours and sings, and generally delights in his whole wide world.  We talk about nothing and I wind up loving everything more because he loves it all so much.

I am on my knees on the slate, music coming from the iPhone on the counter, Today’s Hits.  I send him out to spin and reel him back in like a yo-yo.  What are nephews and “niephews” again, Mom?

There's a plastic baggie stuck to the bottom of his sweaty foot:  Look Mommy, I can hold on to stuff like eagles can.  But not for long, because I don't really have talons. 

It's time for lunch and his brother is at school:  Can I have some of Tucker’s "Fo-ritos" with a cheese stick? 

Reading a book before rest time, reminding me that he is pretty much the perfect combination of ham and IQ, he lets out that pure, contagious laugh, the one I will try to remember all my life:  I’m laughing because that tickled my funny bone.

From his perch in the front of the stroller on the way down the hill for Kindergarten pick up:  How do we get those shadows to stop following us.  Do we just have to wait for them to go to bed with us at night? 

I bend forward for a goodnight nose nuzzle.  In the half light, he is looking at me as hard as I am looking at him, and I sense that feeling I get right before I start crying.  Night, Mom.  I had a great day with you.

I'm not really sure what luck is, but I wonder if we can make some of our own, if it is perhaps a sort of byproduct, certainly of working hard but also of being open to magic and being grateful.  Because I am, lucky in large part thanks to millions of small, nameless moments spent with him.