Love prefers unmade beds. It creeps in when mealtime’s on the floor, and becomes louder when dogs and strings and Tupperware lids become toys. Love’s song is full when feet are bare, and there is much banging on light-filled windows. Love was parading about on this day, shaking the house with its clamor, spilling a wild, wide silken river onto the floor. As my children grow, these are the moments I want to burn into my brain and ride into forever –- flashes of milked skin, a careless swoop of ponytail, exhaustion, dishtowels, crumbs on the floor, sun streaming in the windows – and babies - swarming at my feet.