This week, in the midst of the rush and celebration of Ayyam'i'Ha, I found myself noticing small things, remembering long moments spent with each of my children as babes. And I found myself especially drawn to their hair. It is one of the things people first notice about them: three different hues of burnished red, three different textures, all topping those green-brown eyes and a nose liberally sprinkled with freckles.
Until we moved here two and a half years ago, I gave them all of their haircuts. I knew where each whirl and cowlick lurked, precisely how far a fringe could go until it was considered deeply irritating, who would sit still and who would wiggle, what hair to cut while wet, and what while dry. Such a simple thing, really, and I gave it up without a thought. I still perform the occasional trim, but really, my children prefer shaggy over well-groomed and are not fans of ticklish bits of hair working their way down their collars.
But this week, I noticed and I remembered hours spent with my nose buried in Bella's lush curls, or Ana's sweet peach fuzz, or Asher's infant mohawk. I remembered stories read with their heads tucked into my chest, long afternoons with a wee one snuggled across my front. It is something so simple, so immediate, so very much them. And even now, when they are sleeping and I am not, I will occasionally slip into their rooms to kiss that line where the hair falls away from their face or curls against the back of their neck because I am their mama and the sweetness of those warm round heads are engraved in my most visceral memory.
Joining many others here.