It is nap time. And I find that the quiet in the apartment mirrors my inner feelings . . . watching the snow fall outside as I muse on the cycles of childcare. In this case, it is the post-meltdown calm that I contemplate. As I tried to explain in conversation earlier today, one never quite gets immune to the power of a distressed child: somehow, no matter how many teary sessions you have lived through, the moment is always new and all-consuming in its terrible immediacy. And so once she is happy again, it is as if you have permission to breath--and consequently, the peace is so much sweeter than if there had been no crisis prior to it.
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