“Good morning, beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day.” My wife gave me a pained smile and hoarsely responded with her own version of the phrase. She was sick. A stomach bug.

I knew the best gift I could give her would be to let her rest, and so began a day focused solely on Pidge and me. Together we cooked breakfast, read books, played with puzzles, danced, sang, baked cupcakes, made videos for my wife (“Happys day Mamaaaa!”), hiked with the dogs and tromped bare-bummed through wet grass. It was exhausting and beautiful; hard work and magic.

It was perfect.

If you don’t have kids, maybe motherhood just comes across as emotional labor and sleepless nights and exhaustion that somehow brews magic but looks like the usual assortment of diaper changes and tantrums. With the advent of blogging and social media, we’re all given the opportunity to peer into other people’s veneers of motherhood, highlight reels depicting sunshine and laughter and toothless smiles. We caption these moments with hard work and magic, because so much of motherhood lies somewhere in between.

I look over at my daughter. She notices my observance and flashes a smile, tilts back her head, and shakes her curls. She pops up to her feet and puts her hands on her knees. She’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to pat-pat-pat my legs or spread my arms wide, both acts an invitation. She squeals with delight and charges toward me. This game repeats and repeats until she inevitably face-plants, tears immediately streaming down her surprised face. I rush to her, scoop her up, and snuggle the tears away. I ask her if she needs an ice pack and she says, “No. Mom, Mom, Mom. Kiss. Snuggle. Mom.” She just needs me.

And in these moments, as I cradle my daughter who somehow seems so big and yet so very small, I realize something. My daughter didn’t just change me into a mom; she changed the way light hits an object. Everything looks different, not just because she exists, but because my own existence is so valuable to her.

Someday she won’t need me like this. Someday I may watch as she runs wide-armed to someone else, or seeks solace or comfort in another. Next weekend we will focus on my wife and her special relationship with Pidge, and I will rejoice with her as we celebrate her Mama. But not last Sunday. Last Sunday it was Pidge and me and hard work and magic and love. Last Sunday it was my Mother’s Day.