The way she bounces back and forth, full body rejoicing in her new sitting up skills. The throwing herself around in her high chair, laughing out of the pure joy of movement.
The way he informs his overprotective, temporarily absent father, "I got this boo boo, I got this boo boo. I got four boo boos." The panic in his father's voice because he's not here to protect him from my lackadaisical parenting skills. (He only has two boo boos).
The giggles that spill out of her when he comes near her, her anticipation of the fun he brings.
The way he hugs me tight when I pick him up.
The way she yells at me to get my attention, not crying like other babies- yelling.
His sweaty head, the ring of food bits around his mouth that gets pushed just beyond the reach of his tongue and dries there, a toddler five o'clock shadow.
Her sweet, sweet breath. The gummy smiles I do not yet have to cede to tiny teeth.
At night, straddling the crack between the two full size mattresses that make up our big bed on the floor, I alternate between them. I roll to my left, drape my arm across the impossibly big, strong, slim body of my two and a half year old in 4T. I scratch his back, play with his hair, hug him tight, half trying not to wake him, and half hoping he'll rouse just enough to hug me back.
I feel her absence, always missing one when I'm with the other. I roll to my right, draw my knees to my chest, my head on my right arm, lift my shirt and pull her small body in close. Her own knees draw up in her footie jammies, our bodies curl into each other perfectly, an ancient puzzle cut by a master crafter.
In the morning I will beg to use the bathroom, "By myself!" Tonight I long to absorb their newness, to let their sweet heaviness sink into my bones. This is my constant paradox.
These are the bits and pieces that make up my days, a year round Thanksgiving.
