Night is already noticeably longer here now. Since this week has been a struggle to catch up with everything that fell behind while Babygirl was in the hospital, I'm going to the gym in the dark and leaving my office in the dark, making my days feel somewhat as if they have only nights.
The week Babygirl was in the hospital was spent in the lowest light level possible. The only discernable difference between day and night was whether or not I needed my flashlight to read (yeah, I brought I flashlight. It was the most brilliant bit of packing EVER).
Earlier this week, though, there was a golden hour of pure daylight. Citygirl, Curlygirl and I had wine. Mom and Babygirl were hanging out. Conversation was lively, flashing from serious to silly, interspersed with Elderly Inappropriate ("No! Gramma! Don't talk about the episiotomies again! NOOO!!) (Citygirl is fairly sure she is never going to give birth to a child, by the way. Thanks, Mom.)
I don't know if the sun was actually shining; in fact, I rather doubt it was, but my memory of the laughter is bright indeed. The gift of three of my girls in one place at the same time is a great one. The blessing of Babygirl's full, open, joyfully pain-free face is beyond price.
Night and day seem to have little to do with sun cycles for me. When the night of Pain descends on your child, the bluest skies can become invisible to the heart. And when the Pain lifts, no amount of bad weather can hide the Daylight, and I'm grateful.