This is what I want to remember
I’ve been teaching you to give kisses for weeks now, but the only thing you’ll kiss on command is Thomas the train. Now, it is Friday morning. I am sitting in the red armchair in the living room, waking up. You, my lark child, are playing with the farm animal puzzle I bought for you at Whole Foods. You stop to pick up a stuffed lion and place it on the coffee table next to the puzzle. Then, you take one of the animal pieces and press it against the lion’s mouth. You do this with another animal, then another, and I’m awake now, and I realize what you’re doing. I realize that no matter how much I teach, no matter how much I want you to perform this milestone or that—you do it in your own time, in your own way, and so often your own way is sweeter than any textbook could dream of.
This is what I want to remember.
