We were in Fox Lake recently visiting my in-laws. It was 6pm, Alice’s bedtime, and I was snapping some pictures of my husband and her as they read “Goodnight, Moon.”

Goodnight light and the red balloon . . .

Goodnight bears, goodnight chairs . . .

. . . goodnight kittens, goodnight mittens . . .

And suddenly, this amazing thing happened.

As she twisted towards me and fell to the side, Alice’s cheek smooshed itself into an area beyond her actual cheek zone, continuing downwards and uniting with her chin in a singular, glorious occurrence the likes of which I count myself blessed to have witnessed.

Schmoonch.

It was the biggest, most delicious piece of chincheek I’d ever seen. Like a cream puff, but better.

Like an inflatable inner tube, but better.

Like a marshmallow oozing out of a freshly toasted S’more.

I’ll zoom in for you.

If this baby weren’t mine, I’m afraid I’d have to kidnap her.

I mean, seriously, what if she had been born to some other lady?

I’d be on the run somewhere in the Caribbean, I guess, and I’d have to change my name to Millicent.