The only sounds outside of the hum of the refrigerator are those of Evelyn breathing and the occasional jingle of the dogs' tags as they adjust position. In this moment, all are quiet, and, all but me, asleep.
To my left sits a pile of folded laundry so tall I would have to stand up to see over it. There are dirty dishes in the sink, because the dishwasher is full and running. There are toys on the floor, coloring sheets and crayons covering every inch of the coffee table, and as Evelyn lies here snuggled up on the couch, I know that the to-do list won't change much today. Whatever was to be done today will be left to do tomorrow.
Because when your baby girl is sick and she looks at you with tousled, sweaty hair, weary eyes, and rosy cheeks, and says in a hushed tone, "Mommy, will you lay here and sleep with me?", you let go of the pesky expectation that your house should be just so. You let the folded laundry sit; it can be put away later. You leave the crayons and the paper and the toys all out; maybe you'll play alongside her when she's feeling better.
When that precious little one says, "Mommy, will you lay here and sleep with me?", you set everything else aside, lay down, and respond, "Yes, baby, I'll be right here."
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