I keep waiting for something important or big to blog about, but the reality is, our life happens in small moments and those small moments are our life.
There are so many cute and funny things that Harry does on a daily basis and I command myself: “Remember.”
One of the phrases most often spoken around here lately is “mommy open that?” His toy ottoman or a box or a toy.
We don’t use cute nicknames for stuff, but Harry’s given his items nicknames anyway. For some reason he calls his blanket a “mink.” I always call it “blanket,” and yet he always calls it mink.
He has also fallen into this pattern of calling things old or new. I think it started when he’d reach for a water that was left over from the night before. I’d say “no no that’s old water,” and it stuck. Now he calls a dirty blanket an “old mink” or a random pacifier he finds on the ground or on the counter as an “old boppy.” It’s pretty adorable.
Last night he stood at the mudroom door, a pink construction heart held tenderly in his toddler hands.
The dogs stood guard in front of him, tails wagging; their honed hearing had alerted us that the garage door had gone up.
Aaron walked in and proudly, so proudly, Harry handed him his little gift. “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” he said. I saw it come across Aaron’s face, the surprise and love, as he accepted his Valentine.
When you’re at home with a 2 year old and a 2 month old, days run together. Our mornings go quickly, and the afternoons stretch out endlessly as the clock to bedtime ticks down.
But some days I manage to do something right.
After Harry’s nap yesterday we sat at the kitchen table and I cut hearts out of scrapbook paper; my heart-cutting skills rusty. I wrote notes and he scribbled, passing the colored pencil back and forth between his left and right hand. 26 months old, and I still can’t say with confidence that he’s a lefty. (But I have my suspicions.)
I’ll never forget the sight of him, standing there waiting for his daddy to walk through the door. “Daddy home!” is Harry’s favorite time of day.
At 11 weeks old, Posey is starting to look more like an infant, less like a newborn. It’s felt like a long winter, but it has gone inexplicably fast. That’s always the way.
Tonight she slept on me in the wrap, and Aaron and I drank hot chocolate, mine out of a mustache mug purchased at Target for $4. Sometimes you just need a little whimsy.
This is life. Little moments that become the memories we tuck away and savor in our mind’s eye. Babies carried in wraps. Toddlerese. Hot chocolate and fireplaces on February evenings. Construction paper Valentines. Soon-to-be memories meant to be reveled in now. I’m trying.