What I want to remember

I want to remember my son holding my hand and falling asleep while I laid on tennis balls on the floor next to his bed.  My back hurt to much to snuggle him, so we compromised.  

I want to remember my son falling asleep, holding my hand close to his heart, while we snuggled at bedtime.

I want to remember his smile on Valentine’s Day where I said too much when he left for the bus.  “Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you. I always love you, no matter what day it is.”  He met my eyes, giving me a sideways glance. His blue eyes looked lighter and brighter than usual. Before I shut the door, he said, “I love you, Mama.  Have a good day.”

I want to remember having to agree that we love each other and not one more than the other.  

I want to remember the songs and words he makes up.  They make me laugh.  I want to remember that he says, “Cimmanim” instead of “Cinnamon.”  And that he made up the word “pooperwinkles” as a disdainful expression.  Hilarious.

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