“Can I get you anything to drink?” My husband asks, headed to the kitchen.

I glance over to my blue water bottle.

“Oh, right, you’ve got your water,” he says, and ducks around the corner.

I hear ice clink against glass, and I turn to my soup, raise the spoon to my lips, and let the warm liquid slide down my throat.  If peace were a liquid, I’m pretty sure it would feel something like this.

When he walks back in the room, pint glass in hand, he picks up the baby monitor before sitting down. Where 10 minutes before had been a screeching, sobbing, vomiting toddler now lay a prostrate, sleeping baby.

He lets out a sigh and slumps down into his chair, “Poor guy,” he says, shaking his head and taking a sip from his glass, “One second he’s the happiest kid in the world and the next he’s just completely miserable.”

“I know,” I nod sagely. “That’s just how toddlers roll.”

We lock eyes and crack up.  Another parenting hoop, another jump safely landed.