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madaldal

i worry when i don't get to write often enough. by often, i mean several times a day. i worry because i am fearful of losing my memory, or whatever you might want to call it, of paul's talkative childhood.

once the boy started talking, he never shut up. he says nice things:

paul: i love you, mommy.

he says mean things:

paul: go away!

he says silly things:

paul: mommy throw the ball up to the ceiling like a rocket 3-2-1 go!

he says earnest things:

paul: carry me like a baby, please.

he turns statements into questions by intonation:

paul: we go outside into the tent?

he sings loudly and without reservation:

paul: looky looky here
paul: looky looky there
paul: looky looky e'rywhere!

when the last trace of babyhood leaves his voice, i know that i will mourn the loss.

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