These are the days.

These are the days of broken glasses held together by the cure-all Leukotape and an out of date prescription. Leo will break my glasses again many times as his soft and growing toddler body tumbles over mine, trusting, roaring with laughter. I will keep trying to put them back together and risk them breaking while playing with Leo because I can never give that up.

These are the days of an eye exam at Costco on a Saturday and far too large slices of pizza stacked on our car's dashboard in the parking lot, the four of us in the front seats. The optometrist inside the warehouse is surprisingly good. The receptionist offers Leo a sticker as I look at the hot air balloon in the machine whose purpose I don't fully understand. At the very least, there's pizza right there after the appointment.

These are the days of Christmas sugar cookies at midnight. If I get treats, the dog does, too and we silently practice sit, down, wait as the rest of the house sleeps. But before treats, we brace the late night Outer Sunset cold together. We are supposed to be teaching Kaya where to go to the bathroom in her new dog run in the backyard, but maybe the real purpose is to be outside together and listen to the ocean for two fucking seconds. The sound of the waves settle me like a psychological sigh. Inside, warm and content, we sit under the glow of the holiday lights adorning our street side window. The right kind of quiet eases itself in here. As I always sing to Leo during bathtime alongside Bob Marley & The Wailers, everything is gonna be alright.

These are the days.