“Write that which should not be forgotten.” Isabel Allende

“Write that which should not be forgotten.” Isabel Allende

The way Cole’s hands are still just the tiniest bit chubby, the curve of his toddler cheek and the dimple in his elbow.  The blonde hair that curls at the nape of his neck when it’s damp. Sand caked between his tiny toddler toes, dirt on his hands and brush burns on his knees.  I have to look hard to find my baby, but it’s still there – just a little bit.

His hands holding my face while he plants a big, sloppy kiss on my face and then giggles. And does it again.

Cole’s never-ending pleas to draw more Frosty the Snowmans, sing Frosty again or watch the Frosty video, again. The sound of his voice as he sings out, “FWOOOOSTY SNOWMAN, JOLLY SOUL, COB BUTTON NOSE, COALLLLL!”

Cole’s toes inches behind Chessa’s heels. His need to keep up with his big sister, the way he mimics everything she does and the way he looks out for her. At one time I wanted to hold her back to make it easier for him to keep up. Now, I let them both run and grin watching them go head-to-head.

The sound of his voice, the way he repeats every single thing and the way he talks in way that is too big for his not-quite-two years.

Her budding independence combined with the need to be assured that we’re just around the corner. Testing limits and pushing just past her comfort zone.

Her determination and stubborn streak. Her need to try again, to try again and to try again.

Her first “big girl” bike ride and the way she beamed from ear to ear when she finally figured out how to pedal.

Negotiations over extended bedtimes. Hearing her ask if a snack is healthy and pleading for her to eat a few more bites of dinner.

Listening to her preschool voice sing along to all the songs on the Doc McStuffins DVD and trying to equally distribute Doc and Frosty time between my little girl and my littler boy.

Reaching for my hand and Craig’s so that we can swing her across the parking lot on our way to the car.

The visit “home” to Pennsylvania where I realized that even though the region held so many of the people I loved the most, it no longer felt like “home”.

The way my breath catches in my throat as I drive through our new city, looking at the bright skies and swaying palm trees, wondering how we got here. 

Chessa from the backseat says to Craig, “Daddy, I’m glad we live in Florida. If we didn’t live in Florida we wouldn’t be able to go the beach and we wouldn’t be able to play outside and we wouldn’t be able to ride my bike.  Right, Daddy? Am I right?”