I close my eyes. This is one of those moments. A moment when I just want time to stop, to hang on just a little bit longer, to linger over a toothless smile, an innocent kiss, a sweet smelling babe, a bear hug, a belly laugh.
How I long to remember these small moments. Keep them forever, like a tattoo burned into my mind and heart.
And then I blink, and the moment is over. Just another fleeting memory.
And I blink again and that newborn is six months old, that toddler is almost as big as his older sister, and that baby-faced girl is talking back to me like she’s 15 and not 5. Breathe. In and out. And time moves on, no matter how strong my will is to stop it.
Last night I was getting my two older kids ready for bed, helping them put their pj’s on after bath time and running my hands through their clean, soft, and wet hair. My son, who is so sensitive and loving, gave me a big hug and whispered in the way that only he does, “I yuve you, Mom.” My heart melts, and I look into his eyes and try to snap a picture in my mind. A picture that I can hardly remember already this morning, even though he’s been right in front of me all day long. It was one of those moments.
And I said to him, as I nestled my nose into his hair, “Will you be my little boy forever?”
And he looks up with his chocolate brown eyes through lashes that most grown women would kill for, and says in his most compassionate voice, “I’m really sorry, Mom, but I just can’t stop growing up.” And the look on his face is so true and serious.
How I wish that he was wrong. How I want to clench my fists and squeeze so tightly and never let go. How I wish that these moments weren’t so fleeting. How I wish I could capture them in a way that was more than words on a page or a picture in my mind. How I wish I knew how to stop time from moving.