He forgot his lunch today, Daddy didn't double check to make sure he'd grabbed it, and I had to run it in for him. He sat there with all those other kids, back to me, but I recognized him immediately, the shape of his head, the rounding of his back and shoulders. He's mine. I hugged him while I admonished him not to forget again.

At home, his dad is a lump in the bed with bleary eyes and warmth and heaviness about him. He never does sick well and when it hits, he crashes, as he has today, sometime mid-morning while in his office. He came home to retreat. He is mine as well.

She danced and sang for me today. Yesterday we had a tea party. And we always read so many stories. She's mine.
And I have more.
But all these precious ones of mine, there are firstly His, and I am grateful.