Sometimes when the day is over, I walk past the bedroom where you are sleeping and see your cat at the end of the bed, washing his face as you sleep with your thumb in your mouth. 

I go into the kitchen and sort through the papers in your back pack, scribbled notes with phone numbers of friends, crumpled candy wrappers, twist ties, pretty rocks, acorns and loose beads.  There’s usually a library book about lions or princesses, a folder of spelling words, and sand from the playground.

Your crayons are on the table, a sheaf of paper strewn where we had dinner earlier.  “Mommy” is the title of one picture, and I notice that although my eyes appear pink and tired, you have drawn me with very long eyelashes and a crown on my head.  The picture of “Daddy” is optimistically adorned with a full head of hair.  Another paper is covered in curlicue hearts and flowers, and says “To Mommy and Daddy from Rabbit.  I will love you forever.  Do you love me?”

You spent the evening complaining about the lettuce in the taco salad, and then belted out songs in the shower with gusto, forgetting you were upset with us.  Later, you kissed my arm as I sat working on papers and hugged your daddy’s leg as he got your vitamins out of the bottle.

You show us every day how to behave, by loving us even when we’re distracted, by overlooking our failings and forgiving us when we are grumpy and stern.  I hope we can pay better attention to what you have to teach us, learning to see the best in each other, to be kind, to love without reservation.