Looking back into my foggy memories of the infant days with my kids, there are certain events that stand out. There are also quieter moments that are equally remarkable, but tend to blur together into a sensory tapestry. Greeting the dawn with a feverish, exhausted baby's head on your chest is one of those moments I've lived a dozen times. Maybe more. And yet no matter how tired I have been, or which kid it was, or what else was happening, there is that utter peace in knowing that for that child in your arms, there is no better place to be. Being held in my arms was what allowed them to finally rest, and to let go.

This weekend, my youngest, now quite a leggy if still petite seven-year-old, fell ill. Yes, despite getting both types of flu vaccinations, we all still got some sort of flu this last week. It hit her the hardest. From stumbling from her bed, only to vomit on the floor outside my bedroom door, to the fever that made her glassy-eyed and weak, she didn't rest well unless I was near. Finally, worried about her fever (and her inability to keep fever medicine down) I kept a vigil, sitting beside her restlessly sleeping little body on the couch. She woke in fits, and unlike when she was an infant, we ended up watching television together. After giggling our way through the Simpsons Movie, her fever spiked again, and she crawled into my arms.

And there it was again. I wrapped the memories around me like a quilt while she rested her flushed cheek in the crook of my neck. She drifted off to sleep, but I stayed awake. I matched my breathing to hers, and felt the world slip away.