Just right, right now.

My daughter's pajama pants are embroidered with gray butterflies. She has fashioned a red striped unicorn horn out of a piece of paper, and it is attached to her forehead expertly, no tape showing.

She is laughing as we paint our nails on a Sunday morning. I'm sitting "criss-cross applesauce" on the shag rug; she's perched on a low chair, her toes dangling.

(Image credit: sxc.hu user dorotac)

Astonished, she says, "Look, Mama. It's not even noon yet, and we've already gotten our nails done!"

"Yeah!"

"I love it when time doesn't go too fast," she reflects.

"Yeah." I pause, then confess. "Sometimes life seems too fast and too slow all at the same time. Sometimes I feel like I'm rushing nonstop, but somehow the day just drags on and on."

"Yeah." Her turn to pause, as she paints green sparkles over a black base. "But sometimes it goes just right. Like right now. This is just right, Mama."

She doesn't look up from her painting, so she can't see my eyes well up with tears.

Yes, baby. This moment with you? This time when you're old enough to paint your own nails, but young enough to unabashedly wear a paper unicorn horn? This is just right.