I watch her play on the rug with a plastic container and some cotton balls. Her miniature hands fiddle with the lid, tiny fingers with tiny dimples over each knuckle reach in and remove each cotton ball so deliberately.
I lay on the couch as I watch. Still in my pjs. Still trying to wake up.
We try to eat oatmeal for breakfast. She takes a couple of bites and turns her head away, lips pressed together. I try not to get discouraged.
I follow her as she walks with her new walker, the one with the lion face, down the hall. I cheer her on as she smiles a scrunchy nose smile in victory.
I lug the full laundry bag to the washing machine and start a load.
We go on a play date with two friends. One for me, and one for her. My friend and I talk about husbands and life and the struggles associated with our babies eating solid food. We're open and honest and our conversation is like breathing room. Evie pokes at the rubber sand I've plopped her in to play with and whines, not sure how she feels about sand in rubber form. I'm not too sure how I feel about it either. Her friend tries to eat it.
I attempt to complete my Bible study homework. Sometimes I'm highlighting and starring what I'm reading. Other times, I forget what I'm reading the second I stop reading about it.
We try mac and cheese for lunch. She eats a bite with a what-the-heck-are-you-feeding-me look on her face. We try yogurt. Well, I make her try yogurt. I slip it into her mouth when she's off her guard just a little bit. She's mildly intrigued but not enough to keep eating. I let out my breath a little heavier than I probably should and end up making her a bottle.
I sit in the living room trying to read my emails as those little baby hands find the computer keys and start banging. I move her hands away. She yanks the power cord out and tries to eat it. I take it away and say no. She gives the keys another whack. I move her hands and block the keys with mine. She goes for the cord. This mini tussle of wills continues for a few more repetitions until I scoop her up on my lap and let her scoot about with me on the couch, sticking out my leg occasionally when I think she might dive overboard.
She naps. I try to create clean dishes out of dirty ones.
I forget about the wet laundry needing to be transferred to the dryer.
We play peek-a-boo with a blanket. I kiss her belly, and she giggles. I think that giggle is one of the best sounds I've ever heard.
She fusses, then cries, then screams and I stare at her in exasperation, completely baffled as to where this terrible mood came from.
She watches some Baby Einstein. God bless you, Baby Einstein.
While she is entranced in the wonder, I steal a few minutes to attempt to write out something meaningful....I'll settle for coherent...from the cluttered thoughts bobbing around in my head. I am usually in need of many more minutes than Baby Einstein has to offer me.
Sometimes I just give up and watch Baby Einstein, too.
She goes hunting for her blanket, the one I used to swaddle her with. She clops down the hall on her hands and knees and pulls it out from between the bars of her crib and lays with it on the floor. I pick her up and we snuggle on the couch for a few minutes. Her little mop of soft honey hair is nestled right below my chin, and I think this is one of the best feelings there is in the world.
We venture to the splash park with some friends. Sweat runs down my back as I yank her swim diaper up over her chunky thighs, rub sun screen on her face and try to have a decent conversation. I'm usually not too successful with the rubbing in of the sunscreen part. I tug her into her swim suit, and off we go. She grabs at the water spurting and gurgling next to her and smiles as I swing her through the fountains.
These random moments.
These tiny snapshots of our everyday.
They are made up of actions and thoughts and words and feelings that seem so very small and ordinary.
But this is where life lives. Raw, unedited, messy, true life. In these moments.
They are not deeply profound or interesting, but tucked inside them are quiet victories and sometimes not-so-quiet struggles.
At times, I want to skip these moments because they can be tedious and mundane and hard in their own sort of way. And I often wonder what I am actually accomplishing. But I don't think we are supposed to glide over them with light feet. I don't think we're supposed to wish them away.
I think we're supposed to hunker down and be in them. To own them.
For it's also in these moments where growth blossoms and flourishes, if we let it. As we live these moments, we learn patience and trust. We learn endurance and joy. And if we're lucky, we might gather some wisdom as we go.
And so, along with the milestones and the revelations, I record the humble.
Because it is worth remembering, too.