I hope I remember her little hands and delighted squeals as she plays in the little pool.
I hope I remember that my kitchen and floors and even book pages don’t have to be perfect all the time. Because that’s not real life.
I hope I remember the interrupted bathroom visits all day long.
I hope I remember this time that’s so fun and exciting and hard and sometimes frustrating.
I hope I remember waking up with our faces inches apart because she snuck into our bed, again.
I hope I remember how much she loves playing with balloons and rewatching old videos of her as a baby.
I hope I remember all of it. But I’m human, so I know I won’t, which is why I write. But I hope that when I look at curved pages, that got soaked when she splashed water on me and we both laughed that I’ll remember these slow, hot summer days with me and my little girl who doesn’t always seem so little anymore.
I hope I remember.