Last day of kindergarten.
Last night in a crib.
Last conversation before someone closes their eyes to this world.
Sometimes I am in awe of my ability to forget. With ease I focus intently on now.
I forget when they were so little. The little fingers and voices and innocence. I look at pictures and try so hard to remember. I look at Heidi and try so hard to sear the moment in my memory. The feelings, the breaths, the words, the sounds, the smells. Her hair freshly washed, the curls framing her face.
Her sweet little voice calling to me to rescue her from her crib.
The way she snuggles into my neck when I rock her to sleep.
Night time is so sweet. It's as if everyone wants to go to bed in peace. Forgetting about the arguments earlier in the day over baby dolls and lollipops and messy rooms. I take my time tucking each of my girls into bed. I snuggle with Heidi until her eyes seem too heavy to stay open. I lay down next to London. She asks me to rub her back - and reminds me to not forget her hair. I savor this moment. London is not a cuddler, except in the dark of night. I sit on Ava's bed and we whisper about her day. She tells me with great delight about things she learned, fun moments with friends, and what she looks forward to tomorrow. She is my story teller. She remembers the little things, the details, I often overlook. I tell her that it's time to turn her brain off and get some sleep. She giggles and pretends to turn a switch on her forehead. She closes her eyes and falls asleep, with a subtle smile on her face.
Sometimes I really just hate turning the page.