I’ve learned over two years of motherhood that time is both your best friend and your worst enemy.
It will erase all traces of the virus that has forced you to fearfully watch your baby cough out a lung as he sleeps next to you on the couch.
It will eventually bring the teeth that have been working their way through your baby’s gums, resulting in him eating and sleeping poorly.
It will see him master a new skill, like holding his bottle, using a fork or throwing a ball.
But time will also someday make your child no longer feel the need to snuggle on the couch before bed and in the early morning.
It will erase his need to instinctively clutch you close when he’s scared.
Someday, enough time will have passed that he will no longer chirp “Mama, mama!” when he wants to show you the block tower he made or the basket he dunked on the little basketball hoop hanging very low from the entryway closet.
Childhood is a wonder while you live it and bittersweet when you watch it from 20-something years beyond.
All the new things my son says and does, seemingly on a daily basis at this point, could never be done justice in the pages of a baby book. When he’s grown, the wet feeling of his messy kisses, his tiny hand in mine, his delicate eyelashes fluttering on my face when he’s up close won’t be recalled in their beautiful essence until he has a child of his own, who will likely be my first grand baby.
Right now, time is still my best friend, and I will strive to be present in each moment terrible and wonderful, and hope that the most beautiful ones embed themselves not in an Instagram photo, a blog post or a piece of hand print art work, but in my very being for all my days left on Earth, and maybe even after.