Yesterday afternoon, I kicked my two-year-old daughter out of the house. It had been sleeting the day before but yesterday it turned sunny and warm. I didn't know how long it would be nice for so after her snack, Peter picked her up and put her outside to play.
Lydia played outside for quite a while, coming back to the door occasionally to check in with me. One of those times I asked her if she was ready to come inside and she answered—in a soft voice that was very un-Lydia—that she wanted me to come out and play soccer with her.
There was so much I'd been hoping to get done once Pruitt, my newborn, had gone to sleep, but how could I say no to that offer? How many times in her life will she want to play with me? Not enough.
Lydia and I kicked and threw the ball until it was time to start dinner. Then she pleaded with me to keep playing. I watched her as she asked me to keep playing and wanted to record every detail of the moment—the way the sunlight illuminated her face, her tiny lips, the jumbled up way she begged me to keep playing. But even as I listened to her words, I knew that by the time I sat down to record them, they'd be gone from my memory.
How do you hold on to these moments? How can you truly capture them?
I don't know if you can. Lydia is going through a camera-shy phase so I can't stalk her like the paparazzo I have been. I guess all I can do is enjoy these moments and let go of them when they're gone. And pray that new moments will come to fill my heart tomorrow.