Sitting on my back porch, enjoying an unusually cool morning, I look down at the pool of urine around my ankles.  No, postpartum incontinence hasn’t gotten the better of me.  My almost-three-year-old decided she’d rather stay snuggled on my lap than take the long, four meter trek to the bathroom.  She was soaked, my legs were dripping and the puddle started draining through the spaces between the floor boards, watering the weeds below.  Several feet away, also on the deck, my four-year-old had moments earlier emptied the contents of her muddy science experiment in little dribbles and piles.  Thirty second earlier, this is not how I had envisioned my morning.  For crying out loud, it was barely seven thirty!  I had been sipping my coffee, chatting lightly, watching the squirrels and taking visual snapshots of scenes that caught my eye from the dry comfort of my chair.  I was taking pictures that I alone could see and remember, savoring the refreshment of an early morning outside with my littles.  The pee quickly shocked me out of that reverie.  But I also had to consciously decide that the pee incident didn’t have to set the tone for the morning.  Pee happens.  After a quick cleanup, I spent a few more moments soaking in the outdoors and imprinting the snapshots in my mind.  Then I grabbed my camera, because they were too good not to share.