I'm 80 years old, and somehow I woke up in my 38 year old body, just for one day. I wake up with tiny hands tugging at the sheets. I blink. I sit up slowly. My baby, she's little again. I gasp. I cry. She climbs into bed, laughing loudly, wiggling. I used to rush in the mornings, but not today.

I hold her tight, inhaling that baby smell, memorizing the feel of her warm, sleepy body against mine. I spend an hour making pancakes, her favorite, the chocolate chip ones. I watch them eat, every bite. I listen to their chatter, their silly questions, the way they slur words.

She spills some milk and smears jam on her face. My younger self would have sighed, grabbed a cloth, and quickly wiped it off, probably unbothered. But my 80 year old self just smiles. I wipe her face with a warm cloth, so slowly, so gently, as if each stroke were a prayer. I leave the spilled milk for a moment, just watching the puddle glisten in the morning light.

Later, we go to the park. The swings, the slide, the sandbox. I used to check my phone or chat with other moms. Today, I'm on the floor, in the sand, building a castle, and then immediately letting them destroy it. We laugh. I push her on the swings, higher and higher, until her screams turn into pure joy. I catch her at the end of the slide, again and again.

I notice everything. The way the sun catches her hair, the sound of her little feet running, the intensity in her eyes when she discovers a new stone. I notice the lines of tiredness around my eyes in the reflection of a shop window, the slight ache in my back when I bend over. These are the things I took for granted. This body, this strength, this endless energy I felt I never had.

The afternoon comes too quickly. Bath time, books, bedtime stories. I linger over each page, each word. I trace the lines of her sleeping face, her soft breath against my cheek. I whisper, "I love you. More than you'll ever know. More than I ever knew."

As I lie in bed, the house silent around me, I feel the approaching tiredness. But it's a good tiredness. A deep satisfaction in the soul. I think of my 80 year old self, alone in my quiet home, reminiscing about these days. And I swear that when I wake up tomorrow, back in my real time, I will remember this day.

I will remember to savor my coffee, feel the sunlight, truly listen when my daughter speaks. I will remember to hold her hands, look her in the eyes, forgive the spills and the mess. I will remember that the dirty laundry can wait, that the dishes aren't going anywhere, but these moments these small, fleeting, beautiful moments are everything.

And then, as the first rays of dawn break through the window, I know it's time to return. But I take with me the memory of this day, a love letter to right now.

Always remember that every day with your children is a gift, a blessing.