I turn around from grabbing an ingredient out of the refrigerator and she is there, underfoot.
I stand up after cleaning out the counter under the bathroom sink, and my stiff-from-crouching knees nearly trip over her little body.
I swoosh around the kitchen in a flurry, trying to put groceries away while she keeps one hand on my pant leg.
I settle down to nurse the baby, and her wiggly body is nudging its way first onto my lap, then over my shoulders, then at my feet.
I hurry out the door, and accidentally bonk her in the head with the car seat because she is lingering too close by my side in too tight of a space.
I feel frustration. I feel too needed. I want space to myself. I speak a little too harshly.
And then, when she is in bed and the house is quiet, I sneak into her room and crawl in her bed, where I hold her as close as possible.
And I vow to do better tomorrow. For she is growing up faster than I can grasp — she is getting more independent by the day. One day, she won’t want to play the role of my shadow. And I will miss it.