I have a picture hanging in my office that mirrors how I feel today.
Great big swaths of blue and yellow run across the paper, faded now from the sun that has streamed through my office window for more than a decade.
It's the first thing I see when I unlock my office door in the morning and when I stop to think about it, I can't help but smile.
I remember picking Zig up at the big red house where she attended preschool, her running into my arms, shouting "Mommy!", me picking her up and smothering her with kisses.
The glow on her sweet little apple-cheeked face as she presented her masterpiece to me. I don't remember but I bet I had tears in my eyes when I read the caption. Her work of art now hangs above my desk and is the first thing I see when I open my office door in the morning.
In the upper right hand corner I can barely make out the words the teacher had written at Zig's direction.
"My Last Day as a 2 year old. 3/31/99"
Was she sad that she would no longer be two? Excited at the prospect of being three? Did she look forward to the year ahead as full of new challenges that she would master or full of obstacles she would struggle with?
I didn't ask and in my defense seriously, she was two.
Today is my last day as a thirty nine year old.
If given a large canvas and jars of paint, I suspect my picture would look incredibly similar.