We Can Blink
When older moms and grandmothers saw me at the grocery store with my baby and toddler and said, 'Oh, they're so cute! Enjoy this time because it goes so fast!' I used to force a smile and say, 'It doesn't feel very fast today!' I would practically burst into tears and wonder why they would say such an awful thing! Don't they remember how hard it was? Don't they remember how tired they were? Did they have some magic secret and know how to enjoy EVERY MINUTE of EVERY DAY with their precious little ones?
No, they didn't. They just got to where I am now. They got to the place where the babies aren't babies. They sleep through the night. They don't wear diapers. They can play together or with other kids in the neighborhood. It's easier. It's more fun. It's sad.
Why is it sad? It's sad because I feel like I missed it. I look at the pictures of them as babies and toddlers and I think, 'When was that? I don't remember that at all!' I see myself in those pictures, with a smile on my face as I snuggle those babies and I KNOW I was there, but I can't FEEL it anymore. I can't smell their baby heads. I can't touch that impossibly soft skin. I know that my arm would fall asleep as I held their limp, sleeping bodies. I know that I didn't dare move or even breathe because it took me SO LONG to get them to sleep, but it seems like a dream, or like it happened to someone else.
It did happen to someone else. It happened to Elise-the-new-mom. She was so tired and worried and full of joy and purpose. She was scared and unsure of herself and wasn't quite sure what to do with that baby. She loved him more than she knew she could, so she was afraid she would screw it up. What if she hurt him? What if she scared him? What if she never got the hang of breast feeding? What if he wasn't healthy and strong and smart and good? She had moments of serenity. They occurred in moments that were few and far between. They happened in the middle of night when she would go into her baby's room to feed him, change him and rock him. She sat in a huge, soft, brown rocking chair and held that tiny baby while he nursed. She felt like she would melt into him and never wanted to put him down. He would look up at her with such trust, love and comfort. He seemed to say, 'It's all going to be fine. I love you. You're doing a good job.' And she would say, 'Thank you, oh, thank you. I think you're right.' She sang the same songs that her mother sang to her. They were the same songs her grandmother sang to her mother and some were even from her great grandmother. She felt connected to all of them. She felt sorry for her own mother and the way she treated her as an adult. She was always trying to do her best. We all were.
Fast forward six years. They are six and three. They are strong and smart, healthy and beautiful. They are good and nice and funny. They are better than I could have hoped for. They are learning and I am teaching, but I'm learning even more than I ever have before. They want to be good. They have so much love. They even love each other in a way I couldn't have dreamed, in my best dream.
Even as I write this, they are playing in the basement. They are playing games and laughing and talking. They are negotiating and planning and imagining. They are singing. Always singing. Sometimes they growl and yell and fight, too. They are my boys. They aren't babies. It did go fast. I look deep into their eyes and try to memorize their faces and the feelings. I won't be able to. I take hundreds of pictures. They will help, but I won't be able to feel like who I am today, ever again, because I'll be different. I'll have new experiences and so will they. We have our memories, but even those change. We don't have to hold on. We don't have to 'capture' them. We can let them melt into tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. We can blink. We aren't missing it. We're DOING it.
No, they didn't. They just got to where I am now. They got to the place where the babies aren't babies. They sleep through the night. They don't wear diapers. They can play together or with other kids in the neighborhood. It's easier. It's more fun. It's sad.
Why is it sad? It's sad because I feel like I missed it. I look at the pictures of them as babies and toddlers and I think, 'When was that? I don't remember that at all!' I see myself in those pictures, with a smile on my face as I snuggle those babies and I KNOW I was there, but I can't FEEL it anymore. I can't smell their baby heads. I can't touch that impossibly soft skin. I know that my arm would fall asleep as I held their limp, sleeping bodies. I know that I didn't dare move or even breathe because it took me SO LONG to get them to sleep, but it seems like a dream, or like it happened to someone else.
It did happen to someone else. It happened to Elise-the-new-mom. She was so tired and worried and full of joy and purpose. She was scared and unsure of herself and wasn't quite sure what to do with that baby. She loved him more than she knew she could, so she was afraid she would screw it up. What if she hurt him? What if she scared him? What if she never got the hang of breast feeding? What if he wasn't healthy and strong and smart and good? She had moments of serenity. They occurred in moments that were few and far between. They happened in the middle of night when she would go into her baby's room to feed him, change him and rock him. She sat in a huge, soft, brown rocking chair and held that tiny baby while he nursed. She felt like she would melt into him and never wanted to put him down. He would look up at her with such trust, love and comfort. He seemed to say, 'It's all going to be fine. I love you. You're doing a good job.' And she would say, 'Thank you, oh, thank you. I think you're right.' She sang the same songs that her mother sang to her. They were the same songs her grandmother sang to her mother and some were even from her great grandmother. She felt connected to all of them. She felt sorry for her own mother and the way she treated her as an adult. She was always trying to do her best. We all were.
Fast forward six years. They are six and three. They are strong and smart, healthy and beautiful. They are good and nice and funny. They are better than I could have hoped for. They are learning and I am teaching, but I'm learning even more than I ever have before. They want to be good. They have so much love. They even love each other in a way I couldn't have dreamed, in my best dream.
Even as I write this, they are playing in the basement. They are playing games and laughing and talking. They are negotiating and planning and imagining. They are singing. Always singing. Sometimes they growl and yell and fight, too. They are my boys. They aren't babies. It did go fast. I look deep into their eyes and try to memorize their faces and the feelings. I won't be able to. I take hundreds of pictures. They will help, but I won't be able to feel like who I am today, ever again, because I'll be different. I'll have new experiences and so will they. We have our memories, but even those change. We don't have to hold on. We don't have to 'capture' them. We can let them melt into tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. We can blink. We aren't missing it. We're DOING it.
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