Tonight, you looked up at me while daddy nuzzled his nose into your neck. He was tickling you. Your face was full of laughter’s wrinkles and dimples. You squealed in delight “Do it again, daddy! Do it again!” I smiled down at you, my heart bursting with love, as I committed your tiny face to memory. Motherhood is pure joy. And it is equally painful. This season is fleeting, and that’s perhaps the hardest part of it all. Not the sleepless nights, tantrums, teething or sicknesses. No, the hardest part is that it’s passing by at an alarming rate, with nothing to be done about it. It’s like water flowing through your hands. You can never really stop the flow. No matter how you arrange your hands, the water always finds a way to flow out, as it should, and disappear. And so this season of motherhood flows away from me. Each day, you grow more independent and you need me a tiny bit less than you did the day before. It hurts, but I also know it is good. Perhaps bittersweet is the word to use here? I am thankful for the nights like tonight, when I can feel God nudging me to commit you to memory. I know I’ll cherish who you are in the morning, but I also want to remember every little detail of who you are right now. I want to remember the way you look: the dimples that appear when you smile and your mint green eyes, covered up by those long, black eyelashes. I want to remember the tangy scent of a toddler boy, mixed with that faint baby smell that is all too quickly fading away. And I want to remember how you’re just tall enough to turn on the lights by yourself, but still small enough to fit into my arms. I want to remember everything. My hope is that when you’re grown, I’ll be able look back, without regret, and know that I fully cherished who you were today.