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My legs start moving and lead the rest of my body to the couch, where I find myself lying down. I look up at the blank wall across from me, the wall on which I've wanted to hang just the right piece of art. When I was at the gallery last week and found the perfect piece, my son was with me. Just as I was about to call the sales clerk, my little man, in my arms, had the biggest, most diuretic poop of his life. It soaked through his diaper, to his pants, and onto my blouse. Nice! We shuffled off to my mobile diaper changing station, the trunk of my SUV. Then, home we went and forgot about that painting.

As I lie on my couch looking at the blank, white wall, the afternoon sun shines through the tree that is just outside the window opposite our wall. I see the pattern. Framed on the wall is a piece of motion art in shades of white and grey. Leaves dance around in the breeze. Rays shine through them creating shapes in ovals, triangles, and diamonds. It's simply beautiful.

Later, I wonder, would I have experienced this moment in time if I had not allowed my legs to carry me over to the couch instead of the chore I was about to do or the article I was about to read? Would I have experienced that moment if I had been able to purchase that piece of art in the gallery before my son had the biggest, most diuretic poop of his life?

Thank you, my little man, for your tantrums and your poops.