She is learning how to bend down and look at something low on the ground, under things. Such a simple idea, a simple motion. And yet something that we need to learn how to do.

There is so much that I can do that I have never thought twice about. But at one point, I did it for the very first time. When did I learn how to bend down and lay my face parallel to the ground, to look for something that had rolled away, to reach for it and grasp it in a way that didn’t roll the object further? Did my mother take note of it? Did she smile and clap and tell me good job? Does she remember it now? Will I remember this in 30 years?

My husband and I, sitting on the floor, bent over with our heads upside down, our hands by our ears. She took turns crawling between us, crawling to the space between our knees and our faces. She got low, turning her face to the side to meet ours, smiling when we locked eyes. “Hey!” we said when she peaked around our elbows. “Heyyy!” she squealed back, toothy gums showing, eyebrows arched with joy.

How can I forget this?