When Did I Blink?

Donning a chocolate beard, he tells her a story about a lion that's trying to catch someone and eat them. She lies on her back, chestnut hair spilling over the pillow, with her feet tucked up into the slats. She corrects his made-up anecdote and offers that they "just play cars now". Normally, she's not that "into" cars but the ambiance of the camping lantern under his bed must elicit this desire. They make the engine sounds with their voices and run Hot Wheels along the slats.

I lie low on my stomach in the dark room, trying to listen and capture a photo of my two youngest at play. Their big sister slides down beside me and she smiles at me, that growing-up smile, like she now understands the importance holding onto memories like these. I smile back at her and I am struck by the memory she's making with me right there as we peer in on the scene before us. When did I blink and she became a friend? How does she see what I see under the bed when it was just yesterday she would have dashed under there with them and demanded her own pillow space?

Suddenly, the two players notice us and break into giggles, grin for the camera, and then return to their play. While I exit the room, I press the display button on my camera to view my photos and I catch my oldest out of the corner of my eye. Today, I soaked in the joy of raising my little ones but my eyes were opened to the delight of sharing camaraderie with my bigger one.