It’s summer. The days are long and warm. Chris gets home from work earlier here, while the sunlight still streams in our apartment windows and we have time to go for long walks, all three of us. With Will tucked snugly into his Ergo on my chest and Chris’ hand in mine we stroll, drinking in that delicious early evening air when the breeze blows warm, kissing bare arms and baby toes, absent the searing heat of midday.
Sometimes as I sit and watch Chris and Will playing and laughing I remember the title of one of those Laura Ingalls Wilder books I used to read over and over as a child. These Happy Golden Years is the name of the book that covers the first few years of her marriage and her daughter’s childhood. I didn’t really understand that title as a child, but I think I do now.
These days, months, years of chubby baby thighs, of giggles, of early morning family snuggles, of those moments of pure straight-down-to-the-bones contentment when my squirming, tottering, always moving little boy finally rests his head on my shoulder to fall asleep at night, they feel golden, fleeting, so achingly perfect I don’t know what I could have ever done to deserve such happiness.
I want these moments to be imprinted on my brain forever so that someday when Will is all grown up I can still remember the smell of his downy soft baby hair, the magic of being able to make tears stop instantly with just one hug, those excited shivers of pure joy that he does when he sees his daddy walk through the door at the end of the day.
That’s possible right? Anything to hold onto these happy golden years.