Somehow we ended up taking a walk through the neighborhood, Zuzu in the wagon, Bear dangling from the Baby Bjorn, well beyond nap time. I had decided I wanted to do a Fall Leaf activity when they woke up. So before putting them down, I told Zuzu I was taking Bear out in the backyard to collect a couple leaves. She became enthusiastic, said she'd come too, and dashed to her bedroom, where she retrieved her quilt. She then went outside and climbed into the wagon.
I was immediately on board with the wagon-and-quilt set up, even though I had really planned to just step outside, pick up one red leaf, one orange leaf, and one yellow leaf, and go back inside. A fall leaf collecting walk with a quilt seemed like a better plan. So I strapped Bear onto my chest and we set off.
We discovered that the leaves this fall didn't turn red, or orange, or yellow. They turned everything all at once. We couldn't stop picking up more. Each leaf was a gorgeous myriad of fall colors, all the reds and oranges and yellows together, along with green and purple. Each time we parked the wagon under a tree that had shed leaves, Zuzu hopped out and we both sought the loveliest leaves and ignored the brown crunchy ones. Then she stored them in the wagon. We soon had armfuls.
Then we came to a tree whose leaves were little bitty. They had turned yellow and fallen in piles. The obvious thing to do was to scoop up handfuls of the little soft leaves and let them fall through my fingers. It was a sunny day and the leaves floated and fluttered through the patchy light in a most beautiful way. "Look Zuzu, it's raining leaves!" I said. She squealed laughter and jumped under the shower of leaves. And for one second I wanted to hold back, to cut her off, to keep things clean. But the next second all I could see was the happiness of the moment. The little leaves, and dirt, and maybe bugs that I scooped up with the leaves landed in her thick golden curls and stayed there. Over and over again I scooped leaves and let them flutter down on my daughter's head and all around her, while she squealed and jumped, her upturned face glowing with joy and fall sunlight. And Bear watched all this, kicking his legs against me with furious glee.
I'm glad we did this. I'm glad we are here, disregarding nap time, getting dirty. Come what may, tired children and leafy hair. Those were my thoughts on that glorious fall afternoon.
I don't even remember if the kids napped or not when we got home, but I think not. We sorted the leaves, a great big pile on the kids' little wooden table in the sunroom, and we admired them, and we praised God for the work of art He performed on each of these leaves, such tiny things in the universe, and my brain hurt with trying to contemplate God's greatness and the fleetingness of life.
Often I look at my darlings, my sweet little girl and baby boy, and the love I feel makes my heart ache, and I think, "I want to keep this." I want this moment forever. Every day I want to be able to watch Zuzu trotting around with her curls bouncing. I want to nurse Bear until his eyes roll back, perfectly content with the world. How do I keep this? How do I hang on?
Most of the stuff we do I won't remember. Most of the stuff Zuzu says I won't remember. (I kind of want to leave a voice recorder running all day long every day so when she grows up I can listen to her adorable two-year-old voice as much as I want.) Most moments are like the leaves that grow and change and fall and turn brown and crunchy, that we walked past without admiring. But sometimes we have moments that become Important, because they are so full of wonder, or happiness, or new understanding, and those are the moments that stay in the memory. So I can't keep Zuzu two years old (she's already hurtling toward her third birthday in November, and I CANNOT slow her down), and I can't keep Bear a baby ("don't walk yet honey please"), but I can collect a few moments, maybe an armful, like dazzling green, purple, red, orange and yellow leaves. Zuzu's upturned face, and little yellow leaves fluttering around her. This was one of the Important moments.
I can't make the moments last, any more than I could save our collection of leaves from getting brown and crunchy by the second day. Time slips through my fingers like the little yellow leaves that fluttered back to the ground. What am I to do, other than to be happy in these moments, to skip naps and get dirty, to admire God's beauty and to praise Him?
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