But these days! These nights! And these days! Even if I could trade them for anything, I would not.
"Nothing gold can stay." I remember my ninth grade English teacher quoting this poem to us. A decade and a half later, my baby brother stands taller than me and will turn 16 in a week. So they do grow up. Or at least begin to. These children. These babies.
At 17 months H invented a new game today. I call this game Baby. I hold her in my arms. She looks at me and says, "Baby," about five times. She then falls limp so I will cradle her. I rock her and say, "Baby, baby, baby. I love you." She closes her eyes, opens them, and looks at me. She sits up and smacks her lips to share a kiss with me. It's so ironic to me. My baby playing baby.
And this boy who is now closer to four than three, is also such a delight. His stories, creations, and sweetness leave me wordlessly astounded. "I'm this many pounds tall, Mom," he said as stretched himself to stand up as straight as he could. I love his imagination and seeing it work.
I know I'll probably be kicking myself for letting the dishes in the sink remain there overnight, but we took a drive up the canyon to visit Andrew's grandparents. It felt so nice to give and receive hugs. We even got to see Andrew's uncle. Instead of dishes we chose relationships tonight. And I'm choosing further to write some words because my soul feels starved for writing of late. I would love to write about all the many countless moments that leave me with a pure sense of wonderment and peace, but it's in the everyday. And I haven't yet found the time to write every day.
I'm not sure if I agree wholeheartedly in Frost's sentiment that nothing gold can stay because this is how I'm sustained. These peaceful and heavenly moments help me move onward and upward. They stay. They rest within the memories of my heart and mind, and, truly, I feel them each time I share a genuine hug.