Magical Day

I run around the lake this evening, an hour or so before sunset, wearing shorts at the end of November. It is 57 degrees, and though all the leaves are off the trees, it feels like early fall, or maybe early spring. All around me, people are out walking, running, laughing, raking, stringing up Christmas lights.

The girls, besieged with swine flu fever the past few days, play outside without coats, their lingering coughs the only sign that they've been sick. Stuck inside, we've played school, dress-up, "going to Hawaii," restaurant. We've watched movies, we've colored our hearts out. We're sick of being inside. Today, though, they ride bikes (Annie has finally learned to start by herself), draw on the driveway with chalk, and play hide-and-seek.

We come inside, eat dinner, and watch old home video after baths, snuggled together with doops and jammies. I smile so hard at one-year-old Jemma, running around giving people things and then nodding frantically at them. Have this! Play with this! Yes! This! I think about how, someday, it will be hard to remember how it was to have kids this little. I'll say, remember when Annie learned to ride her bike? Remember when she wanted to wear her gold dress every single day? Remember when Jemma refused to even smell a new food? Remember when she said "fell" for "smell?" I'll say, that was such a magical time.