Note: In the current mom-of-baby-and-toddler life I'm living, I look forward to time alone or aspects of when the present phase is over. Then I think of the irony of looking back, saying we miss something we were in a hurry to be done with. And then the irony of now missing the present because of so much looking back. Basically it might always be impossible to be 'fully present' but gosh-darn we try. My attempt to articulate some of this:

You were four weeks and loved the ceiling fan.

I loved finally going to the bathroom without needing a stool softener.

You were six weeks and loved baths.

I loved when you finally didn't pee everywhere.

You were three months and loved the music toy.

I loved that you finally tolerated 'tummy time.'

You were seven months and loved when the watermelon juice tickled your chin.

I loved how the floored shined when I cleaned it after you were done.

You were ten months and loved swinging in the hammock with Dada.

I loved filtering and framing you for more likes on Instagram.

You were twelve months, not walking, and still loved rolling and army crawling.

I loved that you could finally get what you wanted on your own.

You were fifteen months and loved your first lick of a sucker.

I loved when it was finally in the trash so I could wipe the sticky away.

You were sixteen months and loved doors and drawers and open and close.

I 'loved' bending down for the thousandth time to clean up your mess.

You were eighteen months and loved splashing in the bath.

I loved when you were contained long enough for me to check my phone.

You were nineteen months and loved sneaking into the pantry for the canister of raisins.

I loved that it occupied you long enough for me to take my belly to pee for the ninetieth time.

You were nineteen months and loved the spinny chair in Mama's hospital room.

I loved that it took your attention away from the cabinet I told you fifty times not to open.

You were nineteen months and loved and patted and burped Brother silly.

I loved that you had someone else to look at besides me.

You were two and loved books and trains and asked over and over and over for Mama to play with you.

I loved when you loved books and trains in the other room for pete's sake in the other room for pete's sake in the other room for pete's sake.

You were two and loved to name your blocks and the colors gween gween GWEEN wed wed WED oh-winge oh-winge OH-WINGE yeh-wo yeh-wo YEH-WO.

I loved that yes yes YES you knew your colors GWEEN RED OH-WINGE YEH-WO yes yes yes okay okay OKAY.

You are seven and love riding your bike.

I say I miss when you were a baby.

You are ten and love cookies and milk.

I say I miss when you were twelve months and walking or something.

You are thirteen and love teasing Brother and hurting him sometimes.

I say I miss when you were nineteen months and gentle and loved Brother more than anything.

You are eighteen and love books or girls or mechanical engineering.

I say I miss when you were two and loved fire engines or something.

You are twenty-one and ask one day if I ever got down on the ground to play with you, because you're writing a paper about childhood memories and 'need more material.'

I say of course, I can't believe you'd assume I didn't, who do you think I am, the devil?

You are two and love Mama, Dada, and Brother.

You are two and love ah-pains (airplanes) and two-wains (trains).

You are two and love books, oatmeal, doors, doors, doors, raisins, and poking brother in the eye when I'm not looking. You smile when I tell you no. You cry when I say it's not time for snack. You run away as we're about to board a plane. You hold Mama's face to kiss it with your yogurt lips.

You are two just this once. You are waking up from your nap and saying Mama and snack and Mama and poop and Mama and Brother. Go get your blocks and I'll play with you this time.

My first little guy is now two and injures himself about 12-20 times a day. Each time, no matter how small the hurt, he stops what he's doing to find me so I can kiss it. If we're in different rooms he won't stop looking for me. I've kissed cheeks, fingers, hair, and dirty toes. I usually ask permission to kiss it but I know he'll say "yes." Always, and sometimes still through his crying, he says "All buh-ooh" (all better). His crying may continue but he resumes business as usual, returning to his snack or toy or pestering his little brother. In the middle of the day, this rhythm feels more rote than anything, but there is magic in it when I slow down. There is healing power in a quick kiss, in the acknowledgement of his hurt, and in the love that persists despite his toddler-mistakes and even disobedience. Yes, I kiss his hurts when he hurts himself doing something I asked him not to. Toby comes alive in this love that persists through disobedience rather than the classic I told you so or That's what you get. So do I. How often I've avoided taking risks out of fear of being rejected or disavowed. How often I've feared trying something new or putting time into that one thing I really love, all because I don't want to fail or get hurt and hear I told you so or That's what you get. If I stop long enough to listen, I instead hear:

I look at you and I am full of delight. You make me smile when you rise and when you lie down. When you're unsure, I don't worry about your next step. I am waiting with open arms. I do not run out of chances. I have not written you off. You can try and fail and try again. You can fall and fail safely with me. Be brave. Jump in. Run to me for a hug, a kiss, and a reminder of who you truly are.