Earlier this week, I posted on my Facebook status: "October 1? It feels like it should be at least November by now." And I wholeheartedly meant this because honestly, could we just get this crop year over with already? On to 2013. Check 2012 off and move on.
And yet - and yet - the days fly by and I find myself wishing time might slow down. At least for my little people. How is it October already? And just like every other parent of young children must think, at least occasionally, I sat in church Sunday and marveled at little hands in mine. And tractors in the pew. Will I remember them? Because I want to.
I want to remember dirty little boy feet, because he hates socks and loves dirt.
And little heads bent over Awana books.
And perfectly imperfect handwriting.
Princess dress-up clothes, strung holy everywhere.
Toy tractors in the yard.
Little girls who wear Illini sweatshirts and carry lunchboxes with somuchexcitement to go ride with Dad.
Ponytails, bouncing back and forth.
These blessed days when a child's troubles could be cured just by wearing their favorite shirt.
Blue eyes and freckles on the nose.
Beads and paints and endless artwork.
Small children who say things like, "Speaking of I love you, what time is it?"
Certainly, none of this is rocket science or new news to anyone who's ever raised a child. And like many of my other young mother cohorts, I raised a glass to this story, posted last winter. Exactly.
But still. Will I remember this stuff? This stuff of young life on the farm?
Have I taken enough pictures? (This is a rhetorical question because MY WORD, the hard drives.)
Still. You can't photograph the feel of a soft little hand in yours. Or the four-year-old who gets up so early, just so she can come snuggle with you. Or the way their little bodies sink into yours with a sigh. Happiness. Or the way they walk when life is so, so good. This is the stuff that must be remembered. One way or another.
Even when harvest stinks.