Everything I have dealt with today, literally and figuratively, has been small. For instance, this afternoon I spent a good hour folding, sorting, putting away, and reorganizing my daughter's bitty little clothes (her wardrobe could clothe an entire neighborhood of underprivileged children, but that's another story, and has mainly to do with my mom's addiction to ebay.) I have turned over and then refilled the same basket of little bitty toys approximately four times already, rinsed off of tiny bowls and spoons the remains of several tiny little meals, and shortly thereafter changed several tiny but potent little diapers. My vocabulary consists mainly of tiny little words, many of which are not even, technically speaking, words at all.
So you get the idea. Sometimes it's just hard to feel that my day is really worthwhile. Are the waking hours in which I spend my time with a dog and an infant really counting for anything in the grand scheme of things, or are they just disappearing, one after another, and with them small fragments of my brain, my personality, and my sense of humor (to say nothing of my sense of style, which lately seems to consist of whatever covers the lovehandle/stretchmark portion of my midriff)?
I know the answer to this, of course. I just wanted to sort of send this question out into the universe, so I could hear it and then know that of course it's rhetorical.