Tiny slices of time put together forming our lives, our memories.
Some you long to cut from your life, never to be thought of again.
Others you would do anything to capture, depositing them in the Bank of Remembrance where it will forever be held safe and secure in the vault.
A moment hit me last night – one I never wish to forget.
It wasn’t a surprise.
It wasn’t rare.
It occurs nearly every evening.
But it will go away.
Every night, my husband does the bath time ritual. It is his job. His time.
We began this for two reason: 1) It gives me a much needed break. 2) It was suggested in the baby books as a great way for dads to have skin to skin contact and bonding time with their newborns; as a nursing mother I already had ten hours a day bonding with my children.
As they aged, I lost my nursing time. The feel of a warm baby curved around my stomach, their tiny fingers gripping my own – it’s done.
I don’t plan on experiencing it again.
My husband still has bath time.
Each night, first my Lil Diva, then The Tackler, disappear upstairs into our master bath for a shower or a bath.
Soon, the Lil Diva finishes, and CG carries her to me. Her pajamas are on, her hair still damp from her bath.
She reaches for me, a grin upon her face. “Mommy.”
It is our time, the moment she will choose me over her beloved Daddy.
She wraps her chubby arms around my neck, laying her wet hair against my shoulder as she hugs me tightly.
I breathe in her sweet baby shampoo scent as I sigh with joy.
We cuddle, briefly frozen in our embrace.
The moment I wish I could savor forever.
But the routine must continue.
We play Hunt for the Pacifier and Snuggly, collecting both.
She wraps the snuggly into her arm, her head burrowing into the curve of my neck as I walk up the staircase.
I grab the iPod from my pocket, flicking it on and selecting her night time play list.
I open her door.
I hug her tightly, kissing the top of her silky hair.
Some nights, she points to the chair.
On these nights, I walk to it, sitting down. She cuddles with me, head either on my shoulder, or curling like a tiny baby into my lap.
Then the squirming starts, the buzzer signaling the end.
I stand and carry her to her crib.
“Mommy loves you so much. Night night, sweetie.”
I release her, placing her inside.
She rolls onto her side, sometimes her belly – her tiny bottom stuck high in the air.
“Sleep tight.” I say, as I exit the room.
The moment over, at least until tomorrow.