You grew in the night.

You grew in the night.

I say this to you sometimes when I come to get you in the morning. I whisper in your ear ... You grew in the night. I put you to bed and then by morning you have changed. Your face, your hands.

You grew in the night.

There are so many things I want to be sure to remember but I fear they are slipping away already.

I want to remember how you stretch when you wake up in the morning. Big stretches with your arms high above your head and your little legs flung out in front of you.

I want to remember how much you hated diaper changes when you were very small. You would cry and cry. I want to remember how, later, you didn’t mind be changed and would even giggle while your father got you ready for bed.

I want to remember nursing you in bed and how wonderful and sweet that was even when I was tired from being up in the night.

I want to remember your laughs and giggles and the many other noises you make.

I want to remember every minute because I know you can’t. I want to remember because if I don’t, who will?

I want to remember so that when I am old and you have gone off to make your way in the world I can savor the memories of when you were so small and consumed me completely.

[I wrote this post a long time ago, but never published it. Today seems like the appropriate day.]