Feel the pieces of wood in your little hands.
Open that jar, close that jar, open that jar, close that jar. Again and again.
Throw the ball. Watch it fly.
Fry me an “egg” with that spatula you stole from the kitchen. Yes, I’ll have another. And another. I’ll eat all the eggs you make for me.
Bring me your books. I’ll read them each 10 times.
Line up your cars. Drive them up and down my legs and arms.
Stage your army men on the dining room table. Drop so many of them on the floor and spend what seems like forever picking them up only to do it over again.
Slam your fists on the screen door to startle the birds on the lawn outside. Giggle joyously as you watch them fly away.
Unfold all the blankets you find and lay them out flat on the coffee table. Over and over. Even after I refold them.
Squash those ants. I won’t keep you from them. Your fascination is inspiring.
Pause for a hug and a big, puckered-up kiss. I love it when you do that. I’ll always love it.
Pull all the cushions off the armchair. Stand on them and stare out the window for 15-minute stretches. Observe. Absorb. Imagine.
Show me your sticks. They’re so cool.
Stack your blocks. Knock them down. Wake up your baby brother. Make me forgive you so quickly with that sweet smile of victory.
Silently flip through your books on your own. Make me wonder where you’ve gone, only to discover you content, pensive, and smiling ever so slightly.
Dance. And sing to yourself. Enjoy yourself. Let me watch you.