It’s hard to tell what will be a good memory until some time has passed. When I was pushing your stroller the other day I started thinking about this time my dad, your Poppy, took my sisters, our neighbors and I on a hike in the yellow colored canyon behind our house on a similarly sticky summer morning. We found tadpoles and carried them home in small plastic cups filled with smelly water. Six weeks later we all had frogs hopping around our kitchens.
Not much time has passed since you arrived, but I feel like I already know we’ve made good memories. Right now I feel like I’ll remember them all: the way your eyes almost closed when you smiled big; how hot the house was at night; the way your hair dried like Donald Trump’s after the bath; how badly I wanted to help you feel better when you got your first shots, but it ended up being “The Monkey Swing”; how you let me kiss your cheeks a hundred times like a possessed European; how frustrating nursing was; how ants attacked us in our beds during the July heatwaves; even how your diapers smelled (never that bad to me, honest). In case I do forget something from this summer, I decided to write down a few more memories here…
+You smell like milk, diaper cream and dirty hair (We wash it often, honest!).
+My index finger is too big for you to wrap your whole hand around.
+When we kiss you, you open your mouth and try to eat our lips.
+One night, when I was up feeding you, Daddy woke up and sat with us. I said “Why are you up?” and he said “Because I hear my family.”
+It was the hottest summer in the history of the world in California. We had to have every window open and when you would cry we would run around shutting them all to spare the neighbors.
+One day, a few weeks after you were born, I was trying to sleep after a long night. Daddy went to change your diaper and I could hear him exclaim from the other side of the house, “We have an explosion over here!” I got up and ran in to the room saying, “Oh! Let me see! Those diapers always make me feel good!” He said, “There’s nothing like crap to brighten your day!”
+The first few times I unpacked your stroller from the back of the car I basically just threw it on the ground.
+I listened to the song Your Mess Is Mine on repeat every time we drove to the lactation consultant.
+There’s a sign hanging in the corner window of the frame shop down the street. It either says “nope” or “hope”, I guess it all depends on your perspective when you look at it, but every time I’ve looked at it lately I see the word “Hope”.
Almost three months ago I was going into labor in the rain. So much has changed since then. Now one of the challenges of my day is getting your carseat out of the car when someone parks next to us and figuring out how to get the stroller into a public restroom without taking people out. My entertainment is watching you learn to turn pages, suck your thumb and practicing standing and grabbing. Watching people crash their shopping carts into each other during rush hour at the grocery store is also amusing.
I knew I was going to love you. I felt like I loved you twenty years ago when I was playing with dolls, pretending they were you, but I couldn’t understand how you would fill me up and make me feel more whole. How scary it is and yet how wonderful that there is no one else in the world just like you.
I love you my magic, magic girl.