As I run out the door in the morning I spy a pink tutu skirt and a pair of white tights out of the corner of my eye.
Did Isabella wear that yesterday?Â
And that hits me harder than any gut punch could ever.
I have absolutely no idea what Isabella wore to school yesterday.
It’s not the first time this has happened, and it certainly won’t be the last time. It’s interesting, though, that this is what stands out in my mindâ€”the clothesâ€”as an entire day went by and I missed it all. I don’t know what she ate for breakfast, who she sat with on the bus, who she played with at recess. I don’t know if she took a shower or a bath, or if she is even clean at all. I don’t know what she had for dinner, if she begged for dessert, what Full House episode she watched. I don’t know what book she read at bedtime.
Missed. An entire day missed.
It doesn’t really matter, in that moment when I spy the tutu, what sort of day I had. If my hair looked particularly good, if I fit into my skinniest jeans, if I took my Greens+, if I finished a daunting task at work ahead of schedule, if I had great networking conversations, if I had epiphanies, if amazing things happened on the subway.
It doesn’t matter.
Because all I can think about is that damn pink tutu skirt.