I was trying to remember Maddie's baby feet. How chubby they were. How soft they felt. How they moved around while I nursed her, tucking around my side and tickling my ribs. I changed her diaper one day and kissed her feet and told myself, "You have to remember these little feet. You have to. Because one day you'll see her and she will be all grown up and you'll wish she was a baby again."
I remember them, but vaguely. Memories are so liquid, if you try to hold on to them they slip away, quicker.
I look at her feet now. So big and slender. Little girl feet. Baby feet no more. And I miss her baby-self. She will never again be that.
Sometimes, it's not fair how fast they grow up.