I read this lovely post from one of my favorite bloggers, Liz Gumbinner at Mom-101. In it, she talks about caring for her cold-ridden 7-year-old daughter, wondering how much longer her daughter will want to snuggle.
It hit me hard.
Henry is only nine months old (nine and a half!), yet I feel the pull of time slipping away. I love him so much: so much more than anticipated, so much more than words can describe, so very, very much. My love for him is somatic; I am tethered at the heart.
We birth these beautiful creatures, and every day they move further away, however slowly, from needing us. With each minute that passes, the synapses in Henry's brain form connections allowing him to scoot, crawl, cruise, walk and eventually run out of my arms.
That's my job -- to help him become his own man, to send him into the world a whole person. How odd and poetically unjust that this responsibility conflicts with my own infinite desire to hold him tightly to my chest, to kiss his soft baby cheeks, to rock him to sleep, for always.
|Henry, Day 5|
Photo credit: The incomparable Beatrice Moritz Photography