My daughter’s body is curled on my chest, hot with fever. She is 18 months old, just discovering the joy of running everywhere, but this week her little legs lay still. She opens her eyes some, vaguely aware that Dory is getting lost for the 18th time on the blue of the television screen.

I love the quiet, the stillness before the sun rises and little feet patter down the hall. This time is my gift to myself and to God. It is the time when the coffee is still hot

This house will never be clean again. Despite the unlikelihood of this statement, I know it to be true. I’m drowning in a sea of toys and laundry, and if I am to take Marie Kondo’s advice, it’s all going in the trash because none of it is sparking any joy.