The soft curves of their small faces, long lashes brushing cheeks soft like freshest rose petal. Eyelids heavy, soulful without even waking, above lips relaxed and full. I can’t think of anything more beautiful in the world than my children, especially when they’re sleeping.

They are so very still, sprawled out, gently breathing. I can hold up my own love against their image and appreciate it. I can take all the time I like, all the time I need to feel the love and fear and gratitude and fear, and fear, and worry, and hope. Maybe beautiful landscapes are like this – you can simply enjoy their beauty and nothing is demanded in return.

When the kids are awake, it is one desire after another in rapid staccato beat; hunger, fear, anger, now gimme more attention, attention, attention. The relentless march of the day is punctuated by intense highs and lows that pull me beyond patience. It’s a cacophony of messy, distracting, frustrating action, as so often the large wills of the small critters clash with my own.

Asleep, though, they’re at peace. And so am I. They are an exquisite portrait placed in a darkened gallery, where I can stare and stare and take my time to feel the sorrowful beauty of them.