When I Look at You

I see paper airplane stunts, mud pies and swinging branches.

I see building block skyscrapers constructed before the sun comes up. I see bowling pins made of paper towel rolls and tiny car races through shoebox tunnels.

I see dance parties while we wait for a bathtub to fill and movie nights with popcorn and candy that gets in our teeth.

I hear jokes you made up yourself and rhyming games and “name that tune” and the makes and models of cars we pass on the highway.

I hear raucous cackles and raspy belly laughs and self-satisfied chuckles. Sometimes a melody, sometimes a chaotic jazz tune.

I hear you working through math problems and reading assignments, opening your world’s windows with every advancement of a decimal place and a syllable.

I hear you whispering new phrases you learned on the school bus as you work out what they mean.

I hear you announce the count-down to ignition. You in your NASA costume with a chair on its back, lying with your back on the floor and legs in the air as if you’re strapped into a shuttle.

I hear dinosaurs stomping and shrieking (admittedly too loudly), and superheroes whooshing (admittedly too fast).

I hear Marco! And Polo! I smell chlorine and sunblock as you sit on a lounge chair crunching tortilla chips and sandwich cookies.

I smell pizza nights and sports drinks and sweaty hair after you’re chased on the playground playing Big Bad Wolf.

I smell your kiddie breath with notes of chocolate chips and veggie straws as you whisper instructions into my face for how to play Ninja.

I smell the grilled cheese that burned while breaking up your lively debate about whether your brother could look at, touch or Heaven-forbid play with your new toy.

I smell your hair after a bath and remember when it curled at the ends.

I feel a toy stethoscope on my chest and breathe as instructed. I fell and broke my ankle, and in addition to a cast I will also need a shot in both my legs and arms.

I feel the rogue jabs of cardboard sword fights for which I am collateral damage as I eat a cold bagel and warm my tea for the third time.

I feel the elastic strap of a birthday hat as I sing your Captain Zoom birthday song and you bury your face in my shoulder, smiling behind my back.

I feel the leaves underfoot as we see who can make the loudest crunch.

I hold piles of plastic food on plastic plates. I imagine what broccoli ice cream might taste like on the side of a hot dog.

I hold the helm of a pirate ship to keep us from running aground amidst enemy fire.

I hold a flashlight while you make shadow puppets on the wall and pretend a giant hand is coming down from the ceiling to attack us.

I hold your hand as you tell me about school and yell at me for not packing the right snack. I should have known that Goldfish and raisins were out of vogue this week.

I hold your toddler clothes and put them in bags to donate and bins to keep, wondering how long they’ll keep their scent of baby detergent and if I’ll remember the scent in a few years.

I hold your dreams next to mine and wish for them as much as or more than I ever wished for anything.