I'll probably remember their brown feet in sandals, the way their skin smells after they've spent the day in the sun. The sweet strawberry smell of a nursing baby's breath. Little hands on my cheeks, the elusive and overwhelming kisses. The compulsive smiling of four-month-olds, the funny waddle of a year-old baby. YaYa mispronouncing everything, Kid A pronouncing everything perfectly except for poached eggs, which he still calls "proached".
You know, the good stuff.