When I was little and first learned how to tell time, I’m pretty sure I understood it as somewhat of a constant. Days are always made up of the same number of hours, hours the same number of minutes, and so on. But the older I get, the more I realize how subjective time is. Sure I have the same number of seconds in a day as I did when I was a kid, but a second seems like so much less time than it was then.
I think a lot of it has to do with the sheer number of seconds I’ve lived since then, which makes the seconds seem shorter in comparison.
Whatever the reason, I feel time marching along at an ever increasing rate, and every day I am amazed at how far separated I am from moments in my life that feel so close. High school. College. My wedding day. Little H’s birth. How could so much time have passed when I still feel so connected to those moments?
I revel in the fact that our lives are in constant flux, and I’ve written before about the joy I get from watching Little H thrive and grow. But still there is an ache in my heart that is accentuated with each month we celebrate.
This weekend will be 8 months since Little H arrived, and now more than ever I feel the tug on my heart that all mothers recognize as the bittersweet longing for the tiny helpless newborn we once knew.
Little H is GIANT now in comparison to her former self. I am constantly taken aback by her heft when I lift her form her crib for nighttime nursing sessions.
My back aches less from bending over to get her because she sits up now, with the naturally perfect posture of an infant creeping into toddlerhood.
Her face shows emotion and recognition and all of the things I would expect from any other human capable of conscious understanding.
Instead of just needs, she now has likes and dislikes. (Her likes consist mostly of boobs, baths and mirrors. And for the most part her dislikes include putting her clothes on in the morning and having to sit on the floor while mom does anything else.)
Oh, and she can crawl. The girl is mobile, and that has brought a whole new sort of introspection for me (which I’ll kindly save for another day).
Basically, Little H is doing exactly what she should do. She is growing up. She is becoming a person instead of a baby, and the transition is amazing to watch.
These traces of “kid” that are replacing all the little “baby” things that I love so much are exciting and heart-breaking at the same time.
This dilemma is probably the main reason for the mom-with-a-camera phenomenon so evident on the Internet (present party included). Taking thousands of pictures and capturing even the most ordinary, trivial moments of babyhood is the closest we (parents) can come to pausing the ever-moving hand of the life-clock.
I’m the first to admit that I still roll my eyes most of the time when I come across yet another picture on Facebook of someone’s kid doing something boring like eating mashed peas or playing with a ball, as if their kid was the first one to ever do such a thing. Honestly, who cares?
Simple. Mom cares. Dad cares. Grandma, Grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. They all care. Deep down inside, even I care.
If for one moment we can get over our own self-importance and tune out the banality of social media, we can appreciate those thousands and thousands of boring baby pictures as something more transcendent. They are relics of precious moments lost. Frozen time.
♥ The Midnight Mama