I finish reading "The Geography of Bliss" while sitting on the bathroom floor at about 9 p.m., waiting for Madeleine to pee and/or have a bowel movement. Preferably the latter. As I read the last paragraph, Madeleine keeps making silly noises, kicking her feet and chuckling to herself. I look up from my book and scrunch my face at her. She stares at me in surprise for a second, eyes twinkling, then she bursts into delighted laughter. I smile and look down at my page. As I'm reading the last sentence, she asks me, "Are you happy, mama?" She asks the question like she knows I am.

"Well, yes," I respond, closing the book. "Why do you think I'm happy right now?"

"Because you're reading your book," she says.

"Yes, that's right," I say. "Reading this book makes me happy. But you know what else?"

"What?" She looks at me expectantly.

"I'm really happy because you are making funny noises, and when you laugh it makes me happy."

"Uh huh," she nods, like I was just confirming something she already knew.

I reach out and poke her tummy, and she laughs again. "I love you," I tell her.

"I love you, too, Ducky," she replies.

::::

My happiness is here, in this house, this bathroom, this moment where I am not angry because Madeleine is delaying bedtime, exasperated because she doesn't pee or poop, frustrated because I fully expect her to go back to her room and poop in her diaper. My happiness is just letting the moment be what it is, a quiet, gentle time that it is not at all ideal, but fine nonetheless. More than fine. Her brown eyes so bright they sparkle.