“Mommy?” We ready our fresh pjs on the washer. Towels hang, baby boy’s diaper, everything set to take us in, to dry our damp hair and growing limbs. Where there was pudge and baby rolls, there is now thin arms and ankle points. She takes the lead, strolling in first and turning on the faucet we will all share.

“I may want to live in America when I am older,” she informs me at three and a half. Wow, where is this coming from, my slight smile wonders with my eyes, squinting to see her at some older age. Will it be college? Later? Gosh, will she stage a dramatic coup, some let-me-live-with-my-Grandma moment at age five?

Before I can press much into these folds, these far away moments, she, herself, winds down.

“But…I may get too scary. I may just want to stay home with you and Daddy and Judy and just be cozy.”

She proceedes to scrub and play, negotiating the shower toys with her brother; she is a big girl still with that puppy tummy. Her own dreams and suppositions carried into the shower.

You may, honey, you may.