The kids are alright

I danced with Hazel last night.  I had been making dinner (rare) because Scott would be getting home late, and the kid was having a hard time dealing with the divided attention.  I rushed to get the food in the oven so I could pick her up and as soon as I did, a favorite song of mine started playing on the Ipod.  They were really all my favorite songs because I was shuffling through a mix that I compiled shortly before she was born to take to the hospital, but this one was especially wonderful. 

As we spun around the room and Hazel leaned her head back to laugh like she does, I caught a glimpse of her teeth (and the absence of).  Looking at those teeth has been a battle because the more I want to see them, the less she allows me. The canines are only starting to consider coming in, so there are still four sweet little baby spaces where teeth will surely be before I can finish this thought.  Her molars are huge (hippoesque) and only as white as an unstained babies can be. 

The reason for such a description of one look inside my daughter's mouth might be lost on anyone who does not have children, but for parents, you will understand the sentiment.  I took that scene, that one moment of open-mouthed, laughing, perfect, unstained baby as deep as I could inside myself.  I tried to capture it so far down in my soul that I would never forget it, like all of the times that I have rocked her when she was sick, or read to her while she sat on my lap in her pajamas.  The impossibility of preserving a moment could be the most difficult part of having a conscious mind.  Before I can sigh, there will be more teeth and words and independence and rebellion.  Despite all of that, I will remember what it felt like to have a toothless, perfectly unburdened child who wants little more than to be loved and has boundless love to give. 

Take all of that for what it's worth to you, but don't ask me the name of the song that we danced to, because I've already forgotten.