In five years, I won't remember the week you barked like a seal and vomited copious solidified milk lumps down my shirt in the middle of the night. I'll have forgotten how bloody EPIC your tantrums were, how you kept hitting me and screaming at me to go away, to come back. And how I lost my shizzle at you, again. I'll vaguely recall how clingy the smallest was. How tired and foggy I was. But I will remember how we seized the day anyway. Despite the effort, the tears, the sandflies and the wet sand EVERYWHERE. To choose beauty. To make these our memories that stick.
Three and a half: the meltdowns, the defiance, the wanton moods, the middle of the night wakefulness, the questions about everything, the undoing the thing you just did so he can redo it, the excitement about life, the bookish-ness.
One: the raspberries (ohmygoodness he blows a mean fart on my shoulder!), the coy smile, the singsong call of 'Dad-dah', the climbing everything, the seat-bopping, the offering up the floor crud that just went in his mouth, the hand clenching to indicate want, the screaming frustration when he doesn't get his way, the absolute disinterest in books.