What I want to remember
Sometimes I worry that all I will remember about Barrett's babyhood are all the bad things: the way she cries about every little thing, the fussy droning whine, the problems getting her to sleep, the way she pinches me and hits me and bites me, the not eating anything, the throwing food on the floor, spitting liquids, crying in the car...
No, I want to remember the happy things, the good things:
the smiles when she wakes up or when I walk in the door;
the kisses, big wet, sloppy kisses;
the rare but sweet, spontaneous hugs;
the soft feel of her hands, the way she takes my hand in hers;
the pat-pat she gives me on my back when I pick her up;
the wobbly penguin walk, her staggering run;
the self-satisfied look on her face when she climbs on a chair, or gets into something she shouldn't;
the little fat legs, the little fat arms, dimpled knuckles, dimpled cheeks;
the way she points indignantly when things (like doors or chairs or sisters) don't do what she wants;
the way she dances, stomping her feet, waving her hands, bouncing on her knees;
the little babbling "talks";
those blue blue sapphire blue eyes;
the crinkle of her nose when she smiles;
her laugh, her bubbly, funny laugh;
the smell of her, oh, the scent of her.
I do I want to, I want to remember the sweetness of these baby years.
Before they're gone.
