It was during Jude's bath time that I was inspired to write this.
This is the sweetest moment of my day: the moment near the end where I get to scrub oatmeal scented bubbles on tiny, wrinkled toes. I sit in the quiet of the bright bathroom and watch him play with toy fish and tiny cups. I am amazed as he carefully tips cups full of water into emptier cups, and my mind instantly recalls the chirping newborn that appeared, bright red and screaming, just two short years ago. In my memory, I have safely stored away the smell and feel of his tiny weight in my arms, knowing full well that his size and smell were as temporary as the dirt between his toes. Each day, he learns and changes, taking fragments of the world that I offer him like candy from my hand. He will collect endless nuggets of knowledge and each piece will change him so that the boy that I bathe tonight is a little bit different than the boy that I bathed yesterday but not yet the boy I will bathe tomorrow.
And so on, it will continue until this toddler will become the boy, who will become the man who will be too old for wrinkled toes and bubble baths. And still here, I will sit, recalling unchanging memories of a baby who still fits in my arms. But these days move too quickly for me to mourn them. I don't waste them with tears and regret. Instead, I wash another blessed day off those wrinkled toes. I lay my sweet-smelling, clean boy in bed, ready and prepped for another day that will pass too quickly. We read stories, sing songs, share giggles and kisses. Tomorrow, he may no longer be a toddler, but my memory of him exactly this way will last forever.
For the record, my grade on this was decent, but not fantastic. According to my professor, it's more of a personal essay and less of a memoir. I guess she doesn't know I'm a blogger.