I’m kneeling on the floor of my den. My feet are going numb because I’ve been in this position for so long, but I can’t move. I’m watching my little girl shuffle away from me on her knees, “walking” behind her wooden push toy.
I feel like I’m watching myself in a movie.
When did she get so big?
She’s stopped shuffling and is now methodically pulling the books out of their bin, and she’s trying to hold them all at once. Their glossy covers are sliding against each other; she’s spending more time trying to catch the one that got away than actually feeling satisfied with the amount of books in her lap.
She’s so happy in the corner with her pile books.
Every single day I wish I could push the “pause” button. Or, if in some alternate reality, I could be the one whose baby stayed little for always.
I know some day I’ll wake up and she’ll be grown.
But I try not to think about it.
(Although I’m pretty sure Angus wishes she were grown now. She climbed into his dog bed with him and is laying on top of him. He’s completely squashed. That dog has the patience of Job.)