When it's nighttime and the house is quiet save for the dull hum of the television serving as background noise and the snore of at least one of our cats lounging on the couch, I think about Ethan's childhood. Or, rather, how he'll look back on it when he's all grown up. I wonder how he'll describe his earliest childhood memories to a new friend who waltzed into his life during adulthood, how he'll remember both the holidays and the everyday during the years when he was little.
I wonder if he will recount these days as magical and full of laughter, full of love, full of learning; recalling them as vividly as I hope he does when the clock says it's midnight and I'm still surrounded by scraps, glue, paints and some kind of half-assembled activity for him to wake up to the next day.
I wonder if he'll look back and remember paint stained fingertips and the playground battlescars of ripped shorts and tattered sleeves. I wonder if he'll remember the after dinner trips to the skate park that push bedtime farther back than usual just to sit under the stars and watch with wonder at the teenagers perfecting their skateboard tricks. These moments are my favorite. I wonder if he will remember the imperfections and messes around our home, the watermelon drippings stained into the fabric of our couch, the scraps of construction paper stuck under the leg of the dining room table for days at a time. I wonder if he will smile and recall how each day was a new invitation to create, to play, to discover, to dream. I hope he always takes the time to dream.
I watch him gulping down his almond milk and licking the peanut butter off of his fingers as he grins and I can't help but wonder how he will remember these days when he's older, when he's grown up, when he's deciding if he wants to take the plunge into a family of his own. How he will recall these moments, these tired moments, from the days when everything was still so new.
I hope and I wonder if one day, maybe, these days will seem as magical to him as they do to me now.