I'm not doing enough.
This sentiment characterized my thoughts as I watched videos that we've taken of our daughters. The moments captured on film had seemed so normal as I lived them, but now -- just a few years or months removed -- they already usher me into such nostalgia that I keep watching clip after clip at the computer hours after I reasonably should have gone to bed.
Did Reese really sound like that when she was three?
How could I have forgotten that Brooke used to army crawl across the floor, reaching one arm out and dragging her body behind?
Is it possible that Kerrington didn't always have that mop of wispy curls that I love running my fingers through now?
Have I preserved enough of these memories?
It's impossible to preserve it all. You can't fill your present only by recalling your past. I know this. Yet, I want to remember exactly how it feels when my daughters slip their hands into mine as we walk together in a chain through a parking lot. I want to remember the sweetly sticky smell of their hair when I bend over to kiss them on their heads. I want to remember the thumping sound of their padded feet running down the hallway.
Unwillingly, I resign to the fact that I will not remember it all.
It might be one of the impetuses that propels me to write this blog.
But that afternoon when the baby pooped in the bathtub, was carried into the other bathtub, and then pooped there, too? That is an afternoon that I could forget. And the evening when I left my cart full of groceries in aisle five so I could carry a screaming, flailing toddler out of the store? I could forget that one, too.
Then again, these moments might be exactly why I write this blog.