Over Labor Day weekend, Andy and I went to visit some of my family in Ann Arbor. We ate (a lot), we played golf, we walked around town, we relaxed at their house. It was a lovely weekend, and the highlight was spending time with my cousin’s adorable — and impressive — little boy. As Andy joked, “This kid knows more languages than I do!” Yes, he speaks English, French, and Chinese; he’s starting to read; he’s well behaved and cheerful*; he loves to sing, drive, and play guitar… All before the ripe old age of 3.

*Note: When I first met him 2 years ago, he was a fussy, scream-y baby who never wanted to eat or sleep, even when he desperately needed to. Yay for change!

I cannot tell you how my heart surged when he started asking for me. “Where is Tata Christmas?” (Tata is baby French for “aunt,” and Christmas is his interpretation of Kristan.) Or when he chose to sit on my lap during family photos instead of his grandfather’s. (Sorry, uncle!) Or when he gave me a big hug and bisou goodbye.

The love of a child is achingly sweet and pure.

Then one of those Moments of Maturity hit me. I realized that the way I feel about this kid is probably a lot like how my parents’ relatives and friends used to feel about me. They watched me grow, marveled at my development, felt special when I showed them preference. But as I got older and more independent, I stopped desiring the glowing spotlight of their questions and compliments. It became a burden instead of an honor. Instead of shining, I shied away.

It makes me a bit sad to realize that my cousin’s son — and the kids of all my friends, really — will probably think of me this way someday, too. But it’s not personal, I know. Just a normal part of growing up. And hopefully, like me, in time they’ll come full circle, learning to appreciate the adults in their lives in a new and different way.

As a girl, I used to shower in my parents’ bathroom instead of my own. I’m not sure why. Maybe because their bathroom was bigger, brighter, and had a jacuzzi. Maybe just because I wanted to be more like them.

This past week I’ve been visiting home, and due to plumbing issues, I showered in my parents’ bathroom again tonight, for the first time in roughly 15 years. You don’t really think of a bathroom as a place for memories, but being in theirs brought back so many little moments from my past.

Sitting on my dad’s countertop, watching in the mirror as my mom did my hair. Playing in the jacuzzi and mixing up “super soaps” from all the different bottles. Graduating to the stand-up shower with its frosted door, where I could write secret messages in the condensation. Usually “I <3″ whoever I had a crush on at the time.

If you asked me, I couldn’t have told you where I used to hang my towel, but tonight my hands went there automatically. And though I can pinpoint the exact moment that I realized I needed glasses — summer math class with Mr. Bath at Kinkaid — tonight I remembered how the reflections in my parents’ bathroom mirrors had gotten blurrier and blurrier, just a little bit each night. Sometimes these forgotten things are the most powerful. They make me wonder what else has been lost, and what other bits of myself are waiting around the corner to surprise me.

The bathroom is a weird place to feel nostalgia, but still, it was kind of nice. And it makes me want to capture more of these random memories, more of these little moments, even if there’s no real story to tell.