After lunch on Sunday Miranda and the 3.33 year old both took a nap, at which point the 7.59 year old plucked at my sleeve, pointed at the couch, and said “Da-da, cuddle!” So we grabbed our books (THE HERO AND THE CROWN for me, ANIMORPHS for her) and settled ourselves in the couch (me with my feet on the ottoman, her with her feet on the far armrest and her head on my stomach) for a solid hour and a half of naptime reading.
She made one or two comments about the comfortable squishiness of my belly; I said something about the increasing lankiness of her legs; and I secretly paused to listen every time she giggled or drew in a sharp breath over something she’d just read. I also paused regularly to stroke her hair and kiss her on the top of the head, and every so often she’d reach for my arm and clasp it a little more firmly across her midriff.
It was a very quiet 90 minute stretch. Quiet, contemplative, and utterly glorious. Spontaneously bursting into flames of happiness wouldn’t have surprised me at all.