It's 8:24 on a Thursday evening.
The toddler should be sleeping and I should be curled up in bed with two pups, catching up on Jon Stewart, Glee and those crazy Housewives.
But she isn't and I'm not.
I'm lying on brand new floors being fed plastic food cooked for me by a curly headed girl with bright blue eyes, who is waiting expectantly for me to eat and rave over her superior cooking skills.
I tell her it's delicious and that I love her.
She beams, giggles and takes my plate back to the kitchen.
"Milk?" Ever the hostess, she offers me one of her plastic milk bottles which, 20 years ago, were found in my own personal kitchen.
I slurp and lick my lips. She giggles again and slurps right after me.
We grin at each other. A knowing grin. A special grin shared by two people who once shared a body.
A grin that says "I love you and I love this moment" without having to speak a word.
She should be sleeping. I should be resting.
But it's a Thursday night and I've been away from the house for over twelve hours.
A few more minutes won't hurt.
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