Tuesday, January 26, 2010


There are no babies left in my house. Everyone speaks. Everyone walks. Everyone eats real food. I make three bowls of soup. When I ask them to eat it at the table, there are three little minds comprehending...three little bodies carrying their bowl to the other room, like 3 little ducklings. I answer three little strains of voices calling "Mommy" from the other room.

No babies.

It goes so quickly. Already. Everyone says I won't believe how quickly it goes, but I really do. I can feel it swooshing by. I love the evolution, the explosions of selves, but there's a part of me that aches to see it move so quickly, too. Jack will be 6 years old this summer. 1/3 of the way to college age. How that happened, I have no idea.

Sometimes, holding Simone, I try to take a picture of the moment in my mind. What it feels like to hold someone so tiny. Her quizzical face as she flicks the light switch on and off. Testing out the world. Figuring it all out. It will be gone so quickly. She'll be dressing herself and speaking in paragraphs and having a favorite color.

I already can't really remember the newborn tinyness with any clarity. I can't squish what I know of the current version of Jack/Andrew/Simone into that little bundle who I didn't know yet. Andrew's squished up newborn face when he saw the lights now has personality attached that I didn't know before. I project his current self back on that tiny little being that isn't accurate. I can't ever get the purity of the moment back.

I don't grieve it or miss it, but it feels strange to see. Soon, I'll have three grown children coming home for holidays. Getting married. Having little ones. I can feel the swoosh.

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