You sure were annoying today.
There is just so much happiness in you, trying to get out. Your body can't contain it and you have to bounce around. You have to sit on things (mostly me), and jump on things (me again, Dad too), and twirl, and dance, and laugh out loud. You have to ask a zillion questions, and the answers are never complex enough to suit you. You have to zip around and touch things, go where you've been told not to go, ask Daddy questions (because he is your favorite) when you don't like my answers. I can't keep up with you, and on days like today I just don't even want to try. I want you to SIT and LISTEN and BE STILL and CALM DOWN and STOP. But those words seem meaningless to you.
While I was sitting here at my desk, I noticed your baby album. You looked through it earlier, it is your favorite book to look at. You touch your pictured face, you ask who people are, you comment about how cute you were, you soak the forgotten time back in. I opened this little pink book, flipped casually through the pages, and remembered too. Remembered what a miracle you were, what a blessing, what a soft bundle of perfection trusted to my arms.
I remember other things, too. The constant spitting up, the drool, the diapers, the crying. I remember the spirit of peace you brought. I remember how tiny you were, like a doll. I remember your smell, the satin of your cheek. The here-and-now Carly usually over-powers the there-and-then Carly, but you are still essentially the same. Still happy, still tiny, still perfectly you.
Today I forgot to appreciate the wonder of you. I forgot how lonely I was for you, how hard I wished for you. All I could remember today, before I picked up that book, was how crazy you made me.
So, tomorrow, even though you'll drive me batty again (most assuredly) I'm going to take a moment to snuggle you in, I'm going to find that sweet spot of love and wallow in it, I'm going to breathe you in.
And then I'll let you run.
But being little quieter wouldn't hurt, just sayin.