My pockets have dandelion heads in them. My daughter’s dress has dirt, marker, chalk, dandelion juice, and milkshake on it. Her face and fingers and feet are dirty. My feet and eyes are tired. I need a shower.
But it’s a beautiful tired and a beautiful dirty. It was a day full of fresh air and picture drawing and flowers and fresh juicy apples, and blooms and walking and running. It was a day where we imagined we were bunnies exploring in the woods and bunnies being chased by Mr. McGregor. It was a day where little hands went into dirt and soil, where gravel became castles.
It was a day where little voices sang in the backseat and little hands grabbed mine.
It was a day of sunshine and breeze.
I didn’t scrub any floors or wash any laundry today. There are a few messes I will have to address at a point in the near future, a few piles that got a little higher.
There were skinned hands and tripping over rocks and little squabbles between sisters. There are no perfect days. There is a three year who is crawling on me at 9pm. Wide Awake.
What I fear most is forgetting the magic moments of these days and the inability to cling to every shimmering memory.
My hours feel so full and fragmented that writing gets regimented in to small slots of sacrificed time, prioritized and often bumped by dire needs like dinner and laundry and methods of time passing by which we pay bills. Projects whirl in my brain and on my paper and my days pass in swirls of seeming non-production. But as my baby girl snuggles against my back, I realize productive can take varied forms.
I spend time in photographs – the best way I can think of to frantically keep my memories organized and collected. I love words and thoughts too though. Pictures are subjective, but my words remind me of what I liked today, who I was today, where I was coming from and traveling to. Baby girl is now off my back, lying against me, as my arm wraps around her to literally scratch words onto a page. But this, this holding on, is what I want to remember. The physical, the emotional, the spiritual, the tangible and intangible, – I want to wrap it all into my arms and hold it tight, loving every crazy, frantic second.
So tonight, I scratch out words and hold this baby close – to remember. To remember what it I like to hold a small girl and to clean dandelions from my pockets. To remember the beauty that is this life.