The Space of a Year

My baby is turning 1 today. Of all my 35 years, this has undoubtedly moved the fastest. Our children are a visual representation of time passing. Sure, we notice deeper lines in the creases next to our eyes, however I care very little about slowing my own aging process.

But I’d give anything to slow theirs.  

I am unabashedly emotional watching these girls grow up. The older they get, the more important their own autonomy becomes--which is just a fancy word for, they don’t need us as much anymore.

It tastes bitter and unfair, because I need them the exact same amount, if not more every day.

With Josephine being my third, I knew the speed at which it all would pass and I’d whisper into my brain, savor her littleness. The laundry can wait.

And it did wait.

And I would cradle her in the crook of my arm, for I knew soon she would no longer fit. I cherished her tiny ten fingers and tiny ten toes. Those moments were golden and they belonged only to her and I.

Photo credit: Brian Cutter

We thrived in the days that were worthy of thriving and survived the days that warranted survival. I made every attempt to unblur the blur that encased us. This year was was intentional as a genuine smile.

But I’m still here 365 days into her life, just as baffled at our arrival at a place we all knew was coming.

There isn’t a solution or answer, as it isn’t actually a problem. Children get older-- that’s exactly what we want them to do. They will continually outgrow all the spaces provided: cribs, clothes, car seats.

But what gives me quiet solace is I, too, was once my mother’s baby, moving too quickly for her liking through all the stages of autonomy. Today I still fit wholly in her arms, Mother Nature’s wonderfully intentional design. Because no matter what our age, we never outgrow the spaces where we need our parents to fit.