Yesterday was a great rev day. We had a day-long retreat/workshop at the church that went really well. There was a great energy to the place. It was also an intense 12-hour day for me, so I came home feeling good and tired.

I missed little she-who-is though. Last night I dreamed that I was at the event, having a great time, until I suddenly realized that she was still out in the van, strapped in her carseat. People kept stopping me to gush about how great the day was going, and I kept sputtering things like, "You don't understand! I left my daughter outside in the car! I have to go get her!" I think I woke up before I finally made it out there.

I suppose that one doesn't require much interpretation. It's the faint throb of guilt that I live with, chronic but thankfully not debilitating.

Was reading an article to my husband this weekend about the small but growing number of stay-at-home dads. I was curious to know why he wouldn't feel called to be one of them. R is one of those naturals as a parent, incidentally, full of compassion and delight, not the least bit clumsy with a baby in his arms or a toddler on his knee. But I suppose he summed up my feelings too when he said he just didn't know if he would find it fulfilling as his primary vocation.

But perhaps the word "primary" is not quite right--parenting is a primary vocation for both of us, it's just not what we spend most of our work-week time on. Or is it? When I'm away from my daughter, doing what I love to do, is that parenting somehow too? Or is that the classic working parent rationalization?

Is it good parenting to find a safe, loving place for her to spend her days until I can scoop her up into my arms each afternoon, both of us happy to see one another but also enriched by what the day has brought each of us separately? Or is that merely making the best of a less-than-ideal situation? When she sees me standing in a church foyer shaking hands after the Sunday service, what does that mean to her? Am I mothering her even then, in some indirect way? Or is it only when she runs over and breaks through the line to clasp me around the legs that I become her mother once again?

I don't know. I hope and pray for the best. But lately when I'm leaving in the mornings or putting her to bed at night, I swear to God she's saying, "Bless you."

"Beh-shoo."

She doesn't know "Bless you" in any context other than a post-sneeze response, which we are diligent in teaching her (mainly because "beh-shoo" is adorable beyond words). So I cannot imagine where in the world she could have gotten the idea to use that phrase at other times. It's a lovely thing to say though. I really appreciate it. And I am left supposing that when it comes to my daughter, more goes on below the surface and beyond my grasp than I will ever really know. She is held in some kind of Mystery, as are all of us.