One day (too soon), you will be able to eat spaghetti so neatly that none of it gets on your face or falls in your lap. You’ll use a fork with ease and not even realize what an accomplishment that is. I’ll watch you a moment too long and you’ll stop eating to look up at your mother.
“What?” you’ll ask.
“Nothing.” I’ll respond and smile thinking of this moment with your face covered in sauce and your proud, toothy grin.
One day (too soon) there will be an actual table in my kitchen instead of a pack n’ play. I won’t have to step over toys to walk across the living room and I’ll be so well rested that my to-do list won’t know what hit it.
Until then, I’ll clean dried spaghetti off the floor and hold you down as I take a baby wipe to your sauce-stained legs. These little moments are so precious.