Looking out the window, the green of the trees contrasted the grey sky, seeming ethereal.<\/p>\n

The yellow walls were both cheerful and soothing.<\/p>\n

I could have stayed there—next to her—forever, if I couldn’t also hear the baby cry, and if it wasn’t my tenth wedding anniversary, with waiting wine and husband.<\/p>\n

I turned to see her still, sleeping face, after I realized that I was the only one who listened to the end of the story and, in that instant, I felt my life slipping by—those kinds of moments that you know you’ll (hopefully) think of at age 90 and wonder where the years went so quickly.<\/p>\n

After an evening that included celebrating a decade of married love and the two sleeping children that eventually came along with it, and once in my own bed, underneath silky covers, gazing now at a much darker landscape, I didn’t sleep well—I didn’t want to miss anything.<\/p>\n

And this morning, the green trees and the grey sky have a similar visual appearance, but my eyes aren’t seeing them the same way.<\/p>\n

Today it looks peaceful, but sad too—but I don’t want to be sad.<\/p>\n

So I squeeze my kids, and nurse, and play with the baby and my oldest before she has to go to school, and I know that life does go too fast, but I’m thankful for every ounce of it along the way.<\/p>\n

I’m grateful for coffee-with-sunrise grey mornings, when the world could be groggy and tired, but instead finds never-ending pools of energy inside the smile lines of four year olds and the crowning awareness of the life that still lies ahead, among grey skies and bewitchingly green trees.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n