A quiet moment

On President's day, about 7:30 p.m. we had been through the wringer with Q. I knew he was winding down, or at least that the wind feeding my tornado was about to run out. In fact, I predicted that by 8:30 p.m. he would simply crash - and he did about quarter after eight. The baby was dozing in my arms, the boys were playing a game together and E was reclined in D's arms, completely silent. The television was on, the volume low. I don't remember what was on, I think it was the History Channel. I have been living with chaos for a while now. I know how to appreciate a quiet moment when it comes around. There were many things that made this extra sweet and precious to me. The fact that D was able to enjoy it with us was more than a good portion of that sweetness. It was a bona fide Norman Rockwell moment. I looked at D. He looked at me. We smiled. I'll never forget it. At least I'm going to try not to forget. It's not easy to gloss over the pain of my everyday life, but having been through it makes a peaceful hour not only priceless but something to cherish and cling to like a life ring tossed from heaven. Holding on to that ring, I can float for a little while and imagine that somewhere out there I might find more moments and reasons to hope that we can all survive this time in the life of our family.