past_and_future_in_the_present_tense past "we're going to have a great take. make some amazing memories," i say. she gurgles and coos. "well, i will at least. i'll take pictures for you to look at when your older." she smiles and claps her hands against her stomach. 220628 ... past i sit on the floor and smile at her "my out of office is on, my computer is off, and we have six months together starting now!" she smiles up, genuine and full of the spark of life. her little hand goes up, and i give her a high five. you can't leave a baby hanging. 220630 ... past the flames leap and the logs crackle. she's fixated: it's not everyday you have your first ever campfire. i see the far shore of the lake reflected in her eyes. the landscape ragged and smooth in turns. here, the sheer rock face that defied millenia of glaciers. there, a disordered tangle of of roots that knit together a basket to hold the soil in against the ever present lapping of the waves. she is content, heart filled, in awe of this before now, to her at least, unknown power and diversity. at times she'll have to stand fast like the rock, but at others grasp tight with her kin and neighbours to form a community. i can only hope i'm up to the challenge of helping her grow. 220705 ... past a devilish grin, certainly a hint of the future, and she's off plodding forward with increasing speed on all fours (her butt in the air and her feet flat). at the same time two more teeth struggle towards freedom. the cacophony of change impacts everyone: from the new four freedom of the littlest to trading out the treasured lego of the older two for the safer duplo and more restless sleep for the adults. everyday, a new adventure. 220719 ... past she flattens in the stroller, angling to avoid even the hint of the sun while messily attempting to drink some water. her eye lids flicker, lose, open again, until settling half-closed, staring blankly ahead. "okay, ma petite fils, i get it. i understand. we can head back home." as soon as we cross the threshold from the muggy heat to the relative coolness of the house, she perks up like a plant given water. her eyes brighten, that warm smile crosses her face, and she chuckles full of mirth. "not a summer baby i see, well in a few months we can go sledding and see what you think." she smiles and plods away to explore her domain. 220720 ... past (makes typos) (bilingual autocorrect sometimes ignores gender. alas.) 220720 ... past she looks up and yells "dada dada dada!" as i leave the room. "okay, my little one, you know you can follow me." so she does. we go into the kitchen, me on my twos and she on her fours. as i put summerteeth on, she pulls herself to standing and grabs a mixing bowl from the open shelf. "ah, ma petite sous chef," i say handing her a wooden spoon. she begins to bang on the metal bowl as tweedy sings in the background and i wash the vegetables for tonight's dinner. 220817 ... past she pulls herself to standing on the couch, looks around with a mischievous grin and reaches. her arms aren't quite long enough so slowly, tentatively, she shuffles along, moving her hands to keep her balance, and tries again. at last she finds the angle and grabs the abandoned bowl of fishy crackers. at once she plomps onto her bum, spilling the prize everywhere, and takes off shoving them in her face wherever she finds them. 220824 ... past she falls asleep, sometimes, during the daycare-school drop off loop. luckily this time i remembered to grab my wallet while rushing the boys out the door and on our way. the sky is thick, the air cool and heavy. the promise of summer has faded to the damp tendrils of fall. when we arrive at the apogee of our walk, a coffee shop perched on the side of a hill such that it's ground floor patio is, in fact, also a second floor deck, i am surprised by the crowd gathered inside, but slowly connect the dots: it's the day of mourning for the queen and the federal government is shut down for the day in her honour. the air is uncomfortable and close and i am silently happy she is behind a rain cover: sure despite this post pandemic scene, this is a small spreader event. coffee in hand i rush back outside just in time for an unnecessary street cleaning truck to blast my leg with cold water as the sky laughs so hard it cries. she stirs and looks up through the little window on the top of the stroller, ready for her next adventure. 220921 ... past she crawls over and exclaims -- something, i'm not sure what -- and uses my leg to stand. slowly, i back up. she's there, in the middle of the floor, hands out to the side with a bemused look on her face. she's free standing on her own twos. then she roars and takes one! two! three! steps to me, unaided, before falling in a giggling heap. a new skill! 221017 ... past she smiles and waves. words babble out, though no one is listening to their content. everyone seems pleased to have a such a small one on the line. a car blasts it horn, followed by a truck. a cheer goes up and future raises her arms and yells with them. when we get home she's still pumped, but tired, so we listen to some billy bragg, a fitting choice for the activity. she bounces up and down on her knees as he sings: "i don't want to change the world. i'm not looking for a new england, i'm just looking for another girl." (maybe this song was less apt than, say, never cross a picket line, but it's catchy.) 221107 ... past surveying the chaos of the family room, caused by her brothers home sick but.not seeming any less energetic than usual, i shake my head and say "sorry little one, this was supposed to be our last week just me and you, but the plague fall struck again in its fading hours." 221221 ... past "it's our last day, little one," i try to stay calm, composed. "tomorrow i'm back to work and you're off to daycare with your brother." she didn't respond immediately, too focused pretending to cook in the play kitchen. she thrusts a plastic banana in my face "here you go dada!" a proud family tradition: eat your emotions. 230102 what's it to you? who go blather from