I find myself imagining what Eleanor will be like in five years. Or ten. Or even twenty. What will move her? What will inspire her?
Maybe she’ll live in Paris. Or Vienna.
Maybe she’ll be a doctor, like her mother. Or a lawyer, or even a bartender.
And then I remember that I only have this moment with her – and the rest will come when it comes. She will be what she becomes by these moments, these very moments when she’s only 14 months, and trying a tomato for the first time, or running her hands through the mulch at our park, or picking flowers at dawn.
Indeed, the extraordinary will take care of itself.