“Oww!”

“What?”

“Dolphin bit me.”

Shaya is in the blue bathtub, pouring water from a plastic pitcher onto his leg.

“Bad dolphin!” he says.

I kneel at the side of the tub, my elbows on the cool ceramic.

“I wish I could remember everything about the way you are right now,” I say.

He pours water and smiles.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” I ask.

“Eli is a girl, Ashi is a boy, and I am a boy,” says my eloquent two-year-old.

“And what is Mommy?”

He smiles, looks up at me with eyes narrowed as if he has a plan.

“Mommy is happy.”

At the kitchen table, Asher and Eliana are playing War.

“You are so not going to win this one!” Eliana.

“A ha!” Asher.

Last night: “Mommy, what is my talent?” I look quizzically at Asher. “Other than art.”

There’s going to be a talent show at art camp next week. He wants to know what to do. This morning, the director tells me the younger grades will do group skits. One is doing the chicken dance. They’re making beaks and furry ears to wear. It’s art camp, after all.

This afternoon: “Mommy, I don’t want to perform in the talent show.”

“That’s ok, you don’t have to,” I reassure him.

After the bath: “I. Am. Not. Going. To Bed.” Shaya.

He trails around the house in pajamas that say I Love Mom on the chest, his light-blue blankie dragging along the stone floor.

I am remembering them this very moment. All the important moments. Their special intonations, their sun-kissed voices, the surprise in their eyes at the sweet drippy juice of a ripe tomato at the farmer’s market.

Tonight we made pizza. All three stood on chairs at the counter, stretched the dough I made this morning on the cookie sheet. Pizza sauce, chopped olives, shredded cheese. Into a 450-degree oven.

I will remember the moments. I have to.


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