Thursday, October 11, 2007
When Frances and I come home from the grocery, I take her out of her car seat and stand her on the grass while I unload the bags from the trunk. Then I carry all the groceries I can at once, leave the rest by the car, and call to her to follow me. I rush up the walk and up the front steps to put my armload down by the door, then hustle back to her before she falls and hurts herself. In the meantime she’s sort of tottered over the grass to the walk and is trying to climb the first two steps down near the street. She’s got her hands on the cement, her blanket still clutched in one hand while she wills her feet to step up once, twice. The earnestness of her attempt, the seriousness of her face as she tries to follow me absolutely break my heart. I don’t know why I get so emotional over this—it’s probably the hormones from the pregnancy—but it has something to do with her wanting to follow me and not really being able to. She relies on having me come back for her.
And being emotional about this makes me feel so ridiculous.