"Ooops. There you are!"
He's said it about seven times in a row. It's pretty adorable coming out of the mouth of a toddler. He's laying in his room refusing to go to sleep again. It's 10:26 and I keep thinking about all of the women on comment threads who talk about their children's bedtimes. He's been laying in his room talking to himself for almost two hours now.
Sometimes I feel like I should get him up. I listen to his little conversations from the living room - half wanting to finish my wine in peace and half wanting to preserve this time forever. I wonder if I will remember it? I can't remember exactly how old he was when he crawled or walked. I'm not even sure what his first word was. I'm terrible at documenting things. The first lock of curly hair cut off his gorgeous head sits in my kitchen junk drawer waiting for a scrapbook that realistically may never come.
I sit here and listen to him speak. I have to keep some order, right? I can't get him up and talk to him at 10:31 at night. I can't stare at him and hope I remember these times that I am horrible at remembering. He'll keep getting older and so will I. I remember next to nothing about my early childhood. I wonder if he will remember entertaining himself for hours in his bedroom?
I take a sip of my wine and think about all the things I want him to remember and how fast time goes and how much of my life has already been left out of that scrapbook that I never made.