38. Seeing the softer side of my niece Harlee tonight: Her wows over the Halloween project she helped create, her grimaces (even followed by hobbles) over a slight scrape on her ankle, her eagerness and excitement to help mix and whisk the chocolate pudding, her fading quickly during Rango, and her peaceful face on the pillow after Lily and I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.
39. My mom.
Mom, I was making salt dough ghosts with Lily, Emmy, Harlee (and even Andy) tonight and remembered you making salt dough ornaments with us at Christmastime and painting them together. It wasn't until tonight that I was struck with one of my own wows, the kind I sometimes experience as a parent when doing things with my own kids and recall a fragmented piece of my childhood - a dormant memory - that gives me the gift of feeling a deeper love for you and dad as parents. Reliving the experience (or a version of) creates that spark of recall, and almost like time travel I catch a glimpse of the parents you must have been for us when we were young children. And now, I completely understand why you never baked with me, not once. Don't worry, I remember you baking for me many times (I will never forget my Boston cream pies), but I see now that there are times where the line just needs to be drawn to maintain a semblance of sanity. Thank you, Mom. I love you.
So sweet. the gift of perspective.
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