From where I sit, I can see the little messes that freckle our home.
Discarded clothes, a dropped blankie, piles of books, stacks of videos, and snack crumbs polka-dot the floor.
From where I sit, my hands almost itch to swoop around and tidy up, putting toys back into labelled baskets, throwing this sock into the laundry basket, sweeping up yesterday's muffin dust.
I must remember to run the extra carseat upstairs to the attic, when I get out of this chair, and stack the storybooks into neat piles.
But from where I sit, I look away from the mess and down at my baby, her small hands nestled against my warmth, her round cheek echoing the shape of my breast, her eyes latching on to mine as I gaze at her beautiful little face.
The rest just kind of fades away, from where I sit.