Water in a Cupped Hand

I don’t know how to hang on to these moments. These little moments, some already gone. We can’t go back in time. I try desperately to be here, in the moment, now. But am nostalgic already for when this won’t happen anymore. Will I come back to read these notes? I hope so. I try to journal to hold on and reflect just a minute longer. But nothing matches how it feels…

When she lays her head on my chest as I sing her a song goodnight. We rock in the chair, her belly full from one last bottle, the green lights from the sound machine lulling us both down.

Or her morning coos. If I’m lucky, I can get at least a cup of coffee in me, but hopefully my yoga and a shower before she yawns and stretches and talks to herself. I can let it go until the chats turn to yells. But as soon as she hears the nursery door open, she starts and turns to see who it is (almost always me). And then the biggest smile crosses her face, no matter which of us go to grab her. She streeeeeetches, and then clambers to the side of the crib so I can lift her up.

Our morning sips, bottle for her and coffee for me. Snuggled up on the couch as we make eyes at each other. She babbles her baby stories and tells me about her dreams, and I tell her about the plan for our day.

Breakfast is almost always yogurt and cheerios, eaten in courses, and I always get yelled at when I’m not giving the yogurt fast enough.

Little hands, grabbing my legs and my shirt, trying to climb up my leg, while I’m trying to get ready or make dinner. It is sweet, and I love that she needs me. And I try to appreciate that instead of focusing on the space that I sometimes need.

But she will also self-entertain. I sit here typing as she feeds herself Cheerios. Or I can have a real adult conversation with Hubs while she plays in her playroom. Oh, it’s better when we play with her. But even a few moments when she is in there, content and alone, and I can sneak a peek at my apps or adult conversation or even, amazingly, start dinner (although rarely can I finish it uninterrupted).

Baby sighs. Baby hands. Squishy baby toes. Baby breath. The kisses she blows me when I leave her at daycare. Even the way she reaches for the binky as soon as I put her in her carseat (only allowed in the car and at naps, but she knows where and when she gets it).

She dances. She claps. She waves hello and goodbye. She tells stories in her baby babble so emphatically! She loves everything about the cats: their toys, their food, even petting them.

She is curious, and silly, and loving, and amazed by the world around her. And she is almost one.

As parents, these moments slip through our cupped hands as if like water. Our hands are left wet, touched, but not full. I never understood, how could I have understood, before you came into our lives?