Most nights in the last month or so, on one of my many checks, I stand on the end of my kid's bed and take a snapshot. Often they are out of focus because I'm laughing. Often the dog wakes and peers up at me, squinting, bleary-eyed at the flash.
At first, it was to catch the comical way they sprawl, one leg over the other, arms askew. Different every night. They seem perfectly comfortable in the most bizarre contortions.
But then, as I looked at them and alternately thought how big they looked or how small they looked, (It was both, see) I started to understand that someday I wouldn't be able to peek in to their cluttered room and smile to myself about the way they fell asleep, arms around the dog, spread eagle, curled up tight in a nest of sheets, or holding hands.
There will come a time, in the not-so-far-away future, that they won't need me to feel their foreheads or tuck them back in, or un-wedge a giant, stuffed seal from under their legs. I won't be able to take a picture someday. So I do now.