She won’t remember the tears I wipe away while I kiss the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of toddler-ness she exudes. She won’t remember how much snuggling with her means to me, what we were watching on our new TV, the strange pull in the fabric of her daddy’s chair we are rocking in, or how I loved to run my fingers through her baby-soft curls.
She won’t remember how addicted I am to her laugh, how I long for her baby-girl voice to tell me her made-up stories, just to hear her speak. She won’t remember my holding her hand, desperately hoping if we sat still long enough that she’d stop growing bigger before my eyes.
She won’t remember how each day with her at this age helps me relive each of the days with my olders at her age. She won’t remember my biting my lip every time she said or did something that cemented her relation to her older siblings, so much like them and yet, her own person, too.
She won’t remember a lot about the every day of being only three years old, with so much life left to live, but I hope to remember every second, every kiss and giggle and wiggle forever.
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