I want my kids to remember the little things.
I want my kids to remember that I carried a junky old towel to the park after it rained and I’d wipe down all three slides so they could play and not get their cute little butts soaking wet.
I want them to remember how, when they were each 2-3 years old, I’d lay out their clothes exactly how they’d go on their cute little bodies: pants front-side-up and shirts front-side-down.
I want them to remember how I’d set out a morning snack the night before weekend mornings, so they could munch on cereal and raisins while their daddy and I got to sleep in as long as we could.
I want my kids to remember how when I got home from the library I’d casually display new books on the coffee table and walk away, knowing they’d dive into them in their own time.
I want my daughter to remember me going through her preschool flashcards with her, and celebrating her learning victories with high fives and giggles.
I want my son to remember how I taught him to use a paintbrush, with soft brushstrokes that feel like feathers on the skin.
In reality, they may not remember any of these things. That’s okay, because I will.
Mostly, I just want them to remember feeling loved.