I'm a hopeless romantic

One of my favorite things in the world is a real kiss.

You know the kind I'm talking about? The kind where the giver means it, wants nothing in return, and leaves you feeling truly loved.

When my sister and I discovered what the PIP button was for on the remote control, we capitalized on its value. "PIP" means, "picture in picture". The viewer simply pushes PIP, and a freeze frame is made and remains in the corner of the television, no matter what is playing on the rest of the screen.

We wasted no time. We put in our favorite movie ("The Princess Bride"), fast-forwarded to the good kiss (Buttercup and Wesley at sunset), and pressed that PIP button as hard as we could. It worked! There was the perfect kiss, frozen and immortalized forever, or until an unfeeling brother came and heartlessly deleted it.

We perfected the craft when we discovered that we could actually move that freeze frame around on the screen. After capturing the prince's kiss to his loving princess, we moved that frame where it belonged: smack dab in the middle of the screen. Who cared about the show that was playing in the now-background? We certainly didn't. And we ignored the disgusted comments from our cold-hearted, disgusted brothers.

They just didn't understand what Victor Hugo knew, "A kiss and all was said."

But we knew.

I guess this is an inherited trait because my daughter was watching The Sound of Music on my iPad the other day, and I later found the photo library filled with pictures of Maria and Captain von Trapp in the gazebo, singing to each other. I couldn't get after her, because that would be hypocritical, but I told my husband. He gave himself a loud, smacking face-palm.

I have this other daughter who has just turned two. She gives more kisses than anybody in the world. Her dad made her that way. When she was being weaned, her daddy would hold her until she would go to sleep, kissing her tears away, kissing her closed eyes, kissing her sweet cheeks. Now she passes out kisses like they're going out of style.

They're not.

At least not at my house.

At some point every day, and usually more than once, she puckers up those big lips and smooches whatever part of me is closest to her. Usually, this is my knee caps. When I'm lucky enough to be holding her, then I get kissed all over the face.

I've received every flavor of two-year-old kiss there is: oatmeal, booger, salty tears, spaghetti sauce, sticky candy, too much lip gloss, baby saliva--just every flavor.

And I'll admit something. I love them all. In fact, she can't kiss me enough.

Deep down, I know that someday, she'll stop kissing me. She won't always have a perpetual runny nose. (I hope.) She'll grow up.

Some prince will come along, kiss her, and take her from me. I just know it. And the truth is, I want that for her. Because my deepest healing and greatest earthly joy comes from the arms and love of my husband.

But I'll miss her booger kisses and all the words they mean: Thanks for the milk. I love being in your arms. I'm wrong, but I'm cute. Thanks for being my mama. I feel safe with you. I need a tissue. I love you.

Nothing required in return. Just an expression of her childlike love--which is love in its most pure and perfect form.

If only I could capture those kisses for always.

Hey, Sis. Where is the PIP button when you really need it?