I started writing this list because I realized I was already forgetting things. She's only 3 and some of the details from age 2 are already blurring — not the big events, but the small things. The texture of daily life with her.

So I wrote them down. Not because they're remarkable. Because they're leaving.

The way she says things

She calls elevators "alligators." She says "lasterday" for anything that happened in the past. Breakfast is "brefkist." She asks "what's that noise is?" with the extra "is" at the end, every single time.

There's a window — maybe a year — where these exist. Then they correct themselves and the words are gone.

Her morning ritual

She wakes up and talks to her stuffed animals first. I can hear her through the door — a low, serious conversation with Bear about the day's plans. "Okay Bear, first we're going to eat brefkist, and THEN we're going to play."

She plans her whole day for Bear before she'll get out of bed.

How she eats

She eats pasta one noodle at a time. She picks up each one, examines it like a scientist, then eats it. A bowl of spaghetti takes 45 minutes.

She refuses to let any foods touch each other on the plate.

Her questions

"Daddy, are clouds heavy?"

"If I eat a seed, will a tree grow in my stomach?"

"Why do we have to sleep?"

"Do fish know they're wet?"

"When you were little, was everything in black and white?"

They arrive without warning and demand real answers.

What she does when she thinks no one is watching

She narrates everything in a whispered commentary, like a nature documentary. "And now she's going to get the crayon... she's picking the blue one..."

She practices facial expressions in the mirror. Happy, sad, surprised, angry. Then she makes one she calls "mysterious" — which is just squinting with her mouth open.

She sings to herself constantly. Made-up songs with made-up words.

Her logic

She believes the ice cream truck plays music because it's happy. I haven't corrected this.

She thinks the moon follows our car because it likes our family.

She's convinced that putting a bandaid on anything — including a broken toy and once a wilting plant — will fix it.

How she shows love

She gives me things. Rocks, mostly. But also leaves, stickers, a single cheerio she saved from breakfast. Each one is presented like a treasure.

She says "I love you more than space" which is her largest concept.

When she's tired, she puts her hand on my face and just holds it there. Doesn't say anything.

Why I'm writing this down

Because I'm going to forget most of it. Not on purpose. But that's what brains do.

More than that — I want HER to know these things. She won't remember being 3. But if I record it, write it down, put it in a book — she can read about who she was someday.

How I'm keeping track

1. Weekly voice recordings. Sunday evenings. One question. Press record. Five minutes.

2. A running notes file. When she says something worth keeping, I type it out. Date and quote. Ten seconds.

3. Monthly photos matched to recordings. Not special photos — just ordinary ones.

At the end of the year, I'll transcribe the recordings, combine them with notes and photos, and print a book. One year of her life. In her own words.

She can have it when she's ready.

Your version of this list

Open your phone right now. Write down five things about your child that you don't want to forget. The funny words. The weird habits. The way they show love.

Write them down. Record their voice. Take the ordinary photos. Because this version of them is temporary. And it's worth keeping.