Dayenu dayenu dayenu in through the looking glass.

We dance our way to the bathroom, his hand in mine, her body balanced on my hip. We are still not quite getting ready for bed, and my husband looks on with a mix of amusement and exasperation. When the chorus comes along we spin bumpily around one another, still confined to the small corners of the bathroom. She watches him move. She’s always watching him move. She must register his delight. Then a strange sound. A grunt? A cry?

No, a laugh. Her first.