Sometimes while my body is on pause, waiting for Aimée to finish her sandwich or pull on her shoes I suddenly feel as if I really see her. Maybe it's the curve of her cheek or the incredibly grownup question she's asking me ("Mom, is God on earth?") but I'm overtaken with throat-closing emotion to see up close and in full focus this vibrantly alive, delightful little girl.
So I must ask myself, what on earth is going on the rest of the time? Am I really in such a haze of needs, thoughts, social interaction, thought curation, struggling to finish an entire task that I'm missing out on this? Or are these experiences like a sunrise; they don't happen continuously no matter how hard you try to see them, so just enjoy it when they do.
I don't know. So I close my eyes, and whisper to myself "Remember this, don't let the absolutely heart-aching beauty of your child's presence be lost in the flurry of lesser memories. And come back to this the next time she's whining in the grocery store."
