My sweet Sunshine, you are currently rifling through a box full of spices in the kitchen, tasting some containers before dropping them at your feet, while others are tossed over your shoulder without so much as a cursory glance. I’m not certain of your criteria, but you do seem to have a system. I love to watch you explore–touching and tasting absolutely everything–cataloguing your environment with the precision and care of a scientist.
I folded and put away most of your nine month footies today because the necklines are beginning to stretch and your tiny toes are pressing uncomfortably against the feet. It hurts every time–putting away bits of the present that somehow, without my noticing right away, became the past. It is so strange that these moments which are molding and redefining me as a person and a mother, you will not remember.
You will not remember how I shrieked with joy when you took your first, wobbly steps or how I cried in relief and squeezed you tight after fishing that wad of drool-soaked paper out of your mouth. You will not remember crawling around the yard, picking dandelions and trying to eat pebbles under my watchful eye. You will not remember dancing in front of the oven door, giggling at your reflection. You will not remember the way you turn diaper changes into the baby version of a greased pig contest. You will not remember throwing all the spices out of the box. And you will not remember your silly mama, sitting at the kitchen table, crying while she writes you love letters from your babyhood.
And oh how I love you, my baby. Though our time together this way is short, one day, in the not so distant future, we’ll be making memories you can keep. Until then, I will continue writing (and crying) you a path back through the years to the curious, determined, and much-loved baby you are so that while you may not remember, you can at least have a glimpse of your sweet, small self through your mama’s eyes.