remember

Do you remember today when you announced that you no longer care for Jack and Jill’s story due to their unfortunate spill down the hill?

Remember when you face-planted-stomach-slid in the dirt and mulch of the playground swings and announced, through dirt caked teeth a minute later, that you were fine?

Remember when we played in the spring thaw of a stream, toes frosting blue, setting sail leaves and twigs to downstream freedom?

Remember when you made your first snow angel?

Remember that flight to Arizona when you didn’t eat or sleep for six hours and I mute-clenched my teeth in frustration because I was convinced you’d pop an eardrum from pressure unless I could get you to nurse?

Remember when we found your first tooth mid-bite of pureed peas as the spoon tinked on something hard in your otherwise gummy mouth?

Remember when you laughed for the first time, chortling out a rusty giggle over the “splash-splash” noise of alligators on a toy?

Remember when I wept, kneeling next to your changing table, because I was totally unprepared to mother a baby girl who had somehow managed to pee all over herself, her clothes, and the wall?

Remember when you entered the world, expanded premature, recently fluid-filled lungs, and let loose a wail that put full-term babies to shame?

Remember how I felt butterflies in my stomach as I listened to your first cry, my eyes straining to see through the wall of sheet that separated us, marveling at how I could feel butterflies through an epidural that blocked all pain and only allowed joy to flutter through?

Do you remember?