THURSDAY

You are running through bedroom door into the living room with a smirk on your face. “Uh oh!” You exclaim, and point behind you. “Uh oh!”

Your sister is at the kitchen table painting wooden beads that we will make into ornaments for her tiny tree once they dry.

I set down the bowl I’m washing at the sink and walk into my room, where I find your yogurt bowl almost empty, a bit spilled out onto the carpet. I laugh to myself at your admission—you have no shame. Oh, how I pray it stays that way.

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WEDNESDAY

We woke unusually early so I could rush to photograph a home birth, and after all of the excitement of the morning I felt the woods calling us. The girls are completely in their element outside, and it always leaves me wondering why we have so much stuff in the first place—they don’t need it. Edie hiked the entire two hours on her own two feet, only pausing halfway to climb a playground of large boulders alongside her sister, who I unclicked from my carrier for some leg stretching, too. These are the moments of motherhood I will hold onto all my life—the ones in which I was not trying too hard or thinking too much. We just walked, sometimes holding hands and sometimes quietly on our own.

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MONDAY

You spin away from your snack and run to me across the living room, pausing to lift one knee every few steps. I have just started my workout and you are excited to join.

”Are you marching?” I ask.

”Yeah, yeah, yeah!” You nod your head to the beat and stomp circles around me. When we switch from high knees to squats, you hurl your diapered bottom to the floor and spring back up, grinning. I can only hope you love your body this much in five, ten, twenty years.

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