It's Mommy Monday, where I capture snapshots of our early days of parenting.
I didn't see it, but I heard a thunk and I looked up just in time to the plastic bat and her shocked face. Barely a beat passes before the baby breaks into a wail.
Did you hit brother?!
She was still staring at him, her eyes wide. I could tell she had hit him, and I could tell she was sorry. Her chin started to quiver. She threw her arms around me, who was comforting the baby, already quieted. It was a flimsy little bat, it couldn't do much damage, but we have been talking a lot about hitting lately.
Don't tell daddy. Don't tell daddy I hit brother.
She is crying loudly and hugging me tightly, her face buried in my neck. I make her apologize, then we all rock back and forth on the bare kitchen floor.
Don't tell daddy, she repeats.
I won't, I say, then think better of it. I'm not sure this is the kind of thing I want to promise, but the incident seems innocent enough. Minutes go by, she resumes playing and I resume cooking.
Her daddy appears in the doorway, fresh from his shower, keys in hand to leave.
She runs straight to him, hugs one leg, and says immediately, I hit brother.
I learn so many lessons from her everyday.
The Gorilla and I were watching House Hunters International and it was a large family that was moving to New Zealand.
I remember watching similar things when I was younger, or single, and wondering why in the world you would want to make your home so far away from everyone you loved the most. Then I watched those things after I had made my home so far from everyone I loved the most, and felt sure I would never want to go one mile further.
Today I turned to my sweet husband, the one who has kept me in Los Angeles, and remembered that I would move to the ends of the earth if it meant being with the man I chose and the two people we created.