Let’s start with this: You will never be eight pounds again.
This moment, this stage or phase, will, like all the others to come, pass so quickly. Too quickly. And none of them will ever come again. No matter how much, how intensely and intently we pay attention, we will forget details, even the ones we are so certain we will remember forever, because one amazing moment is waiting, is already unfurling right behind this one. Multiply it all by three. Is there any wonder that our days are filled with absolute amazement and awe?
Orion and Olivia and Mariel, all tangled up in the bed. Look at Olivia and Orion side-by-side and this all comes into sharp focus: here is the difference 51 weeks makes… or, to be more precise, here are the differences 51 weeks make, plural. See how much bigger Orion’s eyes are, his hands and feet, his head, and how much heavier it is. See how my hands can cradle Olivia’s head like a small ball of yarn or a ripe, oversized peach, how her foot is the length of my middle finger. As soon as tomorrow, these particular, personal units of measure and reference will change. They will, in no time at all, be standing against the door frame between the living room and the kitchen, getting measured in inches, enough inches to convert to feet.
That new baby smell is already gone- will I ever smell it again in my life? Probably only with their children. I inhaled it. It was my oxygen. But could I describe it? I doubt it.
There are so many moments. So many gestures and expressions and experiments, each of these unique to each of them. Impossible to remember them all, impossible, even, to record them all. Possible, at least, to live them all, to deep dive into them, to be there, to witness them, to take them in, and like everything, to learn it’s ok to let what you can’t hold, go.