Remembering Now

I’m trying my best to remember you, to take inventory of who you both are at this moment.  I’ve only just realized how important this is as I watch you shed her baby years like dropped blossoms from a tree.   They told me it would go fast. They warned me I would look up and wonder where your infancy had gone.  And it’s not that I didn’t believe them, it’s just that each day has it’s structure and schedules and I don’t always notice the tiny changes that are you growing up. Like how your curls have descended past your shoulders or how your pjs have grown more snug each night. The changes are so subtle sometimes, it’s startling to look up and see a little girl who can write her own name and a walking boy approaching his first birthday. 

My Scout, you are four and a half years old today.  Tonight as I put you to bed, you rubbed the soft skin under my arm and sucked your thumb. Instead of the fretting over your dental future like I usually do, tonight I watched you fall asleep and wondered how many more nights I had before you outgrew yet another piece of babyhood. You’re doing such wonderful things these days. You are learning to read and write.  You love school and care deeply for all your friends.  You had Gramma giggling at all the small stories and anecdotes you tell about your classmates.  When you race me to the car every day on our way to school you say “Winned ya!” and then squeal delighted. You are obsessed with squeezing your baby brother’s cheeks and take very gentle care of him.  You love to dress up and put on make up.  You steal my make up bag at least once a week and hide it in your closet.  You always sincerely apologize and then you always do it again. Your favorite song is Exes and Ohs by Elle King, and if I laugh while you sing it, you get very cross with me and refuse to keep singing. You are light and laughter and fire and music at four and a half years old.

My Weston, you are eleven months old.  A few weeks more and we will be singing you your first serenade of Happy Birthday.  Tonight you fell asleep on my chest with your chubby thighs wrapped around my torso as I felt each warm breath on my neck. You suck your thumb just like your sister. You have seven teeth, maybe eight since I haven’t checked this week, and your two front teeth have an adorably large gap between them which you show off in wide grins and giggles.  I call you my sunshine boy, you beam all day long.  You love music and percussion. You ate your body weight in sausage and sweet potatoes tonight, but your real weakness is blueberries. You walk all over the house and are obsessed with brooms and vacuums. You love dogs.  When you are up to something naughty, like trying to pull out the outlet covers, you tell yourself “nuhnuhnuh” as if you are trying to scold your disobedient hand. My favorite place to kiss you is that soft spot buried between your cheek and neck rolls. You always giggle when I do.  You are joy and gentleness and determination and movement at eleven months old. 

I will forget these things. I won’t remember how the two of you played peek-a-boo, both bubbling with giggles, in your tent for ten whole minutes today. I won’t remember that you fell asleep with pictures of polar bears and ice queens on your pjs.  I won’t remember how you both danced to Colors of the Wind as your curls caught the light through the living room windows. I can’t hold on to all these gorgeous pieces of your childhood, but I will put them here in these quick lines and jotted notes with the hope that when I come back to find them, I will see them looking up at me with that same wide-eyed innocence that you have now, and I will get to hold you like this once more.