A Permanent Marker

So I am cleaning...again. I'm sweeping the floor trying to get the majority of Emery's food off of the floor. It's 8:30 and this is probably the third time today that I have had to clean the floor. She thinks it's hilarious to clear her tray in about one minute flat and then scream because she's hungry!

I look up, and there it is - or should I say there SHE is. The oldest, Payton, sporting trendy lime green permanent marker all over her hands, face and clothes. But, nothing says "don't let toddlers play with a permanent marker" like beautiful shapes and symbols scribbled all.over.the.wall.

Lovely.

I take the marker, not so gingerly, cussing myself under my breath and not understanding why in the hell I find this so surprising.

Part of me wants to cry, the other yell, and the other clean - very quickly. I'm scrubbing the wall and thinking, "this is what my life is now? Seriously?".

I look over, she's sitting quietly in the corner, her head down, sniffling. It's then I realize that, yes, I am blessed if this is what my life will be. The realization that I am the luckiest 'reformed party chic turned mommy and wife' in the entire world started with one beautiful little girl and a permanent marker.