This is what I want to remember
It is Monday evening. I serve you the first course of your dinner, which is peas. (You eat three courses at lunch and dinner—vegetable, main dish, fruit. I could call you a fancy baby, but really it’s just to keep you from devouring the fruit, eating half the main dish, and never getting to the vegetables.)
I start by feeding you peas by the spoonful, so I can blow on them, because they’re still hot. Eventually I head back into the kitchen for your second course. You’re a pro at shoving peas into your mouth by the fistful.
I glance over the bar and see that you are eating the peas with the spoon, carefully bringing it from the bowl to your mouth so that none of them spill. Compared to poking your morning cereal with a spoon and halfheartedly licking it, this is masterful.
It’s a moment in a string of moments that span the sixteen months of your life, when it seems as if you’ve been contemplating something for weeks, and then, one day, you do it. Just like that.
Amaze me, Sunshine. It never gets old.
This is what I want to remember.
