So the other day I described the mechanics of a typical day. I realized that in twenty years I won’t care so much about the mechanics of life, but the details. So. As an exercise in attention, here is the typical day, told in visuals:

M is scribbling on a Magnadoodle. She’s finally learned which tip of the pen makes the lines appear. I look up from the book I’m skimming and a magenta swath of color catches my eye outside. I have seen more sunrises since having this kid than in my entire life prior.

Five miniscule poop rocks in the morning diaper. Is she not getting enough fiber?

R slows to a stroll on the treadmill downstairs as Andrew Fastow dissembles on the television.

A thin layer of C’s hair, light with static electricity after a brushing, stands perpendicular to her head, sparkling like sunlight throughout the kitchen.

M lunges for the doorbell and kicks her way out of my arms when the red door opens and her caregiver reaches out for her.

C pretends to be asleep when we get to preschool, her head to the side and eyes squeezed closed, in a vain attempt to get me to carry her inside.

For the next few hours, my desk becomes a shuffling dance of file folders, notecards with “Thinking of you” messages inside them, yellow-pad scribbles, and glossy junk mail addressed to “Pastor.” Cold sunlight is brittle through the trees outside my wall-to-wall window.

On this particular Monday, an internet fast day, I reflexively fire up my web browser and Firefox flashes briefly into view before I shut it down again. This happens several times.

At preschool pickup, C grabs her friend’s hands in hers and clutches them while leaning in close to tell her about “the invitation to my birthday party that I put in the mail to you.” They end their conversation with a hug.

After the drive to daycare, I carry C down the stairs to a darkened basement room where her friends are asleep. L removes an unfolded paper napkin covering C’s lunch: chicken vegetable soup, a sandwich, a banana, 2% milk in a paper cup.

At home, I eat a slice of pizza, crunch a palm-sized gala apple mottled with pink and red, and drink orange juice from a clear cup decorated with little bubbles suspended inside the plastic.

More file folders and yellow-pad scribbles, this time on the kitchen table.

At pickup time, I walk with C the half block from her caregiver’s house to our own and notice that the sky is steely with light that was not present in the sky at this time two weeks ago.

At dinner I notice a lack of food littered on the floor around M’s high chair. Apparently she likes this pasta dish enough to be really meticulous with it.

C and I play Bug Bingo and the clear green discs line up once again on her card. They always do; I have never once won at Bug Bingo.

C clutches her plastic Cinderella figurine during storytime, with Cabbage Patch doll, crocheted blanket, Ellie the doll, and Angelina ballerina in the nook between her and the wall.

As I write, cross-legged on the Big Chair in the living room, two books on creativity sit on the ottoman, reminding me that I need to review them both for the “Writing as Spiritual Discipline” small group I am leading during Lent. It’s time to sign off so I can do that.