You like the hard sound of wood blocks clunking together. And barking and whooping in the kitchen while dad cooks dinner. You like the garage door grinding. And your mom saying, "Daddy's home."
You like the sight of your mom putting a pillow on her lap. And books on a shelf begging to be pulled down. You like the stuffed monkey when it dances on your highchair. And Kitty Marzipan if she ever meows, "Hi."
You like the feel of sweater drawstrings in your hands, your eyes going cross-eyed. And your tongue on your upper lip, reaching for your nose. You like bouncing on the bed from bouncy "baby slams." And your dad buzzing, flying you face down through the hallway.
You like the smell of your fingers when your thumb's in your mouth. And soapy froth on the water, your hair warm-rinsed. You like the smell of your clothes stacked fresh from the dryer. And baby wipes when the terry cloths are still in spin cycle.
You like the taste of sweet potatoes. And peas mashed with carrots from the food mill. The taste of anything on the floor that's not part of the carpet. And your mom's knuckles when your top teeth are teething.
