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.