Years ago when you were babies, I would snuggle into your head and take deep breaths, smelling baby and baby shampoo and your smallness.  Now when I do this, you wiggle out of my arms or turn to try to wrestle with me and I can barely catch a whiff before the moment passes by.  Today you smell like sunscreen and bug spray and sunshine and kid sweat and a little bit like pancakes with a top note of oranges.

You move so fast and all day long there are questions that all end in "why" and someone is always clutching my leg or my arm or my hand.  You want to do what I'm doing or be next to me or on top of me or in the place where I am.

You want to be independent and do it your own way, but with me right there.  You could climb or slide by yourself, but it is better if someone is watching or catching or helping or lifting.

I find sand in your shoes in your hair and in your diaper later in the day.  When we stop to pick up fast food you both cry for fries from the back seat then tell me that it is a "good meal" like I'd spent all day making it.  When I make you ice cream you both eat it until your little tummies practically burst, telling me each time that this one is your favorite.

At the end of the night it is one more drink or book or movie or hug or hold.  Bedtime stretches on forever until you collapse from exhaustion after a day of running and jumping and rolling and playing.  Then the quiet moment when you are resting and breathing deeply that comes 90 seconds after you finally close your eyes.  I sneak out of your room and fall into bed to prepare for the next day when it begins again.