Lest I forget.

Each day is filled with moments, moments that I want to catch and carry in my pocket. If there were a blog post for each of these moments, I'd have a dozen daily entries. Needless to say, I fail to make a record of each and every cherished but sadly forgettable moment. Life never seems to slow down enough to plop in front of the computer so that our todays may be remembered when the kids are grown and the fatigue of raising them has withered away into longing for younger, simpler years.

I try to relish my children's youth in the here and now, but just in case I need a little pick-me-up when they no longer fit on my lap, their cheeks are less kissable, and their thighs less squeezable (or more, as the case may be), I want to capture my Rachel as I have observed her today, an irresistible two and three-quarters year old.

She loves her daddy. He gives her a hug and a kiss before stepping out the door each morning only to hear her come running out crying for another show of affection. Screaming, actually. The front of his pants bear the stains of each messy hug she has given him during his lunch hour, or when he arrives home just after we've begun a sloppy meal of spaghetti.

I love the way her walk is more of a dance, or a skip, or a hop. I wonder if she'll ever grow out of the toddling stage. I hope not. But her forehead (and the permanent gooseegg it carries) will thank her.

She's fiercely independent, demanding that you let her climb on the counters to retrieve her own cup, walk it over to the ice and water dispenser in the fridge, and fill it to the brim. In the next moment, she asks if you can carry her upstairs for quiet time.

When her turn to say a prayer on behalf of the family, it's more like a list, telling Heavenly Father exactly what we did that day, what we're about to eat, and how we're planning on spending the rest of the evening, sometimes including which book she's picked out for Daddy to read.

Rachel loves order. She has to have all the memory cards face-down in the same direction. When she was one, she used to line up cars, or Little People animals, or puzzle pieces in a straight row. True to her age, it's difficult to convince her that cleaning up is more fun than moving on to the next activity, but once she's begun she has an intuition I haven't seen in many kids to pursue a cleaning task to its completion. She will not give up until every last object is returned to its proper place.

What a helper she is! She's the first to respond when I ask for help setting the table, she scrambles upstairs at the first hint of a cry from Eve waking from her nap, anxious to replace her binky, and she runs to put on her flip-flops when Tim asks who wants to join him for a run to Home Depot.

She mispronounces tons of words. Your-gut (yogurt), Fwidge (fridge), Melk (milk). "Hold you me!" is still one of her most-used phrases.

Being a third child has made her a daredevil. Seems strange that just a year ago she freaked out when anyone would try to spin her around or fail to climb the stairs to the monkey slide at the zoo because the platform had holes in it revealing the ground ten or so feet below. Today, she dives underwater during every bath or trip to the pool. Without plugging her nose.

Rachel, you may prefer your daddy. But your mother's love for you is unrivaled.