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Over the weekend I inflated a somewhat large pool Madison received for her birthday the year before and filled it full of water before inviting her to jump in. We spent the day under the sun in our backyard experimenting which toys of hers would float and which wouldn’t, we discussed the shapes of the clouds overhead and watched the trail of an occasional plane flying by, we interrupted the casual routine of the birds that visit the feeder for their daily fill of seeds and by the end of the day we retreated back inside slightly more pink than we were hours before.

We bathed and changed into our pajamas treating ourselves to snacks here and there before ultimately settling down on the couch to watch an animated feline Sheriff protect a town from a pie thief. When the clock struck bedtime, all three of us headed to the one room that seems to make us smile the most to tuck in the one person who does the same and after we asked for forgiveness and counted our blessings, thanking Him for it all, Madison grabbed my hand and squeezed it as tight as the strength of a two year old would allow and I could tell she didn’t want the day to end… to be honest, I didn’t either.

She’s going to be three in a few weeks and it seems the days are flying by, I try my best to live in the moment, to soak in every giggle and blink and mannerism she throws away, but I know in the end I’ll always wish for more time with her. It’s crazy; this joy of parenting, the amount of love inside and how it continues to grow from one sunrise to the next when I’ve convinced myself it’s impossible to love her any more than I do right now yet somehow, someway it manages to double itself every time my head touches the pillow. She rolled over that night, my exit cue, and I could hear the tears in her voice as she said she loved me and I did my best to swallow the lump in my throat to say it back.

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