This painful practice of falling in love

Every time I find myself composing posts in my head, it's in letter form to Eden.

"Dear Eden, I just want you to know how proud I was of you today."
"Dear Eden, I missed you so much while I was at work today."
"Dear Eden, you had a hard day today and I wasn't sure how to deal with it."

It's like I'm scared to try and write about other things, to write about myself. I want to ignore that part. And I don't want to forget a millisecond of the other.

I can't seem to shake this sense that I've got to do it right, that there is only one chance, that today...today might be the day. Or tomorrow.

It is unusual for a child's parent to die, I tell myself. But it's such a hard feeling to shake.

Friends and coworkers joke about getting old, about "milestone birthdays." Joke about turning 29 again. Forty doesn't seem old to me, but it is a looming milestone. It would mean I only have 8 years -- really, 7 years -- left. And that doesn't seem long enough.

It's not a morose feeling (anymore) and I'm not depressed. It's more like an expectation, except I know it's irrational and I should just let it go. It's very similar to the feeling I got several years after my rollover car accident, every time I would drive past an SUV. It's like Pavlov's dog, a conditioned response of sorts.

It makes me want to throw caution to the wind, quit my job, and spend every waking minute I have with my family. But that isn't rational, either. We depend on my job for the income, for the health care, for the retirement...for the mortgage, school.... And work is something I value -- making a difference, leading the way, helping, honing and refining one's gifts for the greater good. Traits I want to model for her.

I can't tell where to draw the line between feeling guilty and feeling relieved. Between worry and preparation. Between acceptance and anticipation.

It's not every day that I feel these things, think these things. It's like a circle...it comes, it goes, it comes, it goes. Ebb and flow.

It's such a painful practice to fall deeply in love again after having lost it. I'm not quite sure how it's done.

"...So you know I love you."

Ring ring. It's Nate's cell phone.

"Hiiii."

[Pause. Did he pocket call me?]

"Hi Mommy!!"

"Hi Eden!"

"I got a LIIIIME flavor!"

[They had planned to get Viva Pops today. Local, organic fruit pops that are the best in the world.]

"Oh, those are SO GOOD! Did you like it?"

"Yeah!! It was good."

"What flavor did Daddy get?"

"Daddy got lime, too!!"

"So you guys matched."

"Yeah! Mommy, how are you?"

"I'm good."

"Are you coming home now?"

"No, I will come home at dinner time after you and Daddy have play time this afternoon. Then we will all be together all night and we can play!"

"Oh. I am going to send you a message after I call you. So you know I love you."

[my heart catches in my throat]

"Oh, thank you, Sweetie! I will send you a message, too."

One day I'll be glad I wrote this down.

Today was just another day. One of those days where Nate and I don't see each other till the very end of the day, and then we're full of stories about this and that and the other that Eden did. Full of the this and the that and the other that is so precious, yet so fleeting. Parental brains have little capacity for memory. Sort of like...sand.

Daddy and Papa went to a preseason Charger game tonight, so I picked Eden up from Grandma's. Since she hadn't had a nap, I snagged the chance to take her to the mall. (See, usually she and Nate do so many "out" things while I'm at work that by the time I get home, she usually doesn't want to go anywhere.)

Before we got in the car she wanted to run and run around their front planter. Just because. Her long, strong and slender legs pumped up and down in her pink and white polka dot leggings. I couldn't believe she had enough energy -- her eyes were rimmed red, she was so tired. But she must have gone around 15 or 20 times. Just because. (Wish I felt like that. Maybe I should!)

One of the things we got at Target were light bulbs. She didn't remember the light being broken, so I was told her a lightbulb was sort of like a battery -- it doesn't look broken, but it will run out of energy and stop working, and needs to be replaced. "OH! Batteries and lighbulbs," she says. A pause, then, "they rhyme."

Earlier in the day she walked up to Nate and said, "Do cat's poop?"
"Yes, they do."
"I think one of them pooped in here."
"That's not poop. That's barf."
"What's barf?"
"Sometimes Oscar makes his food come back out from his tummy, and that's barf."
Thanks, Dad, for teaching her the word "barf."

Nate asked her if anyone at school ever gets in trouble. "Mmm Hmm," she said. "But mostly just the boys." Yep, True dat.

There was more. But I forgot.