Impossible
There are times I feel like I could write a sonnet about the way her eyelashes look against her cheek. Or about the way her mouth rests when she sleeps. Or the crook of her elbow. The bottom of her feet. Eleanor is nineteen months old and perfect. Did I feel this way about Matt? I think I must have but guiltily worry that I didn’t. I could write about him too, though. Odes to morning cereal and afternoon naps. Or to tantrums and bath time, book time, bed time. To the way he curls into the chair next to me even though he doesn’t quite fit anymore and he’s sitting more on me than next to me. He is two weeks to six years old and perfect. They are asleep in bed with me. Him pressed against my left side, head at my armpit and toes at my calf. I look at his feet and wonder when did he get so big? She is draped across my stomach, feet in her brothers ribs and head on my right shoulder. Her eyelids flicker and I wonder what she’s dreaming about. The back of her head rests against her dads shoulder blade. He sleeps as usual facing away from me. And there is poetry there too. A haiku about the shape of his ear. One about the curve of his hip. Another for the sound of his breathing. The way his foot finds mine under the sheets.
I always think I need to start at the beginning. I was born yadda yadda. I grew up yadda yadda. School, marriage, divorce, yadda yadda. But here is where I always want to be.
I asked Andrew yesterday if the bugs on the sidewalk experienced time differently than we do. If it moved more slowly like they show in movies when the foot descending onto the ground takes forever. He told me that time is a constant. Which is true, I suppose. The Earth spins and the sun makes its way across the sky and seconds pass. But how can it be that the four hours between breakfast and lunch is longer than the five minutes here and now, my whole life squeezed into a queen sized bed. The sounds of their breathing a symphony. The sleepy twitching, the up and down of their chests, Matt’s arm first slung across my own and now sprawled above his head a dance.
I read an article (a blog post?) once about chronological time and gods time. Real time and those moments between seconds where time stands still. Chronos time and Kairos time. I think about how they will wake soon. Matt first, likely, asking for cereal. And this moment between moments will be over. The clock will start back up again and we’ll go about our day. Eating, cleaning, working, yadda yadda.
Will I have more of this today? More moments when time stands still and I marvel in the way her blanket drags on the floor behind her as she walks. Or how big his hand is when he tickles her feet. Or the heat from his breath on my ear when we dance in the kitchen. It’s impossible to say, but I hope I do.
It’s harder, I think, the older they get. Harder to remember to take the time to just be. There are lunches to pack and clothes to lay out. School busses and baby sitters and swim lessons and family dinner and a hundred other things, and it’s hard to remember that each moment is only this moment once. She will only say “wuv” instead of “love” for so long. His “h” will not always be the largest letter in his name. As much as I want them to always be little, I am excited to see who they are going to be. What they are going to do with their lives. I can only hope that no matter how big they get, I never forget how much these moments, the moments that stretch into eternity but are at the same time gone too soon, mean.
I always think I need to start at the beginning. I was born yadda yadda. I grew up yadda yadda. School, marriage, divorce, yadda yadda. But here is where I always want to be.
I asked Andrew yesterday if the bugs on the sidewalk experienced time differently than we do. If it moved more slowly like they show in movies when the foot descending onto the ground takes forever. He told me that time is a constant. Which is true, I suppose. The Earth spins and the sun makes its way across the sky and seconds pass. But how can it be that the four hours between breakfast and lunch is longer than the five minutes here and now, my whole life squeezed into a queen sized bed. The sounds of their breathing a symphony. The sleepy twitching, the up and down of their chests, Matt’s arm first slung across my own and now sprawled above his head a dance.
I read an article (a blog post?) once about chronological time and gods time. Real time and those moments between seconds where time stands still. Chronos time and Kairos time. I think about how they will wake soon. Matt first, likely, asking for cereal. And this moment between moments will be over. The clock will start back up again and we’ll go about our day. Eating, cleaning, working, yadda yadda.
Will I have more of this today? More moments when time stands still and I marvel in the way her blanket drags on the floor behind her as she walks. Or how big his hand is when he tickles her feet. Or the heat from his breath on my ear when we dance in the kitchen. It’s impossible to say, but I hope I do.
It’s harder, I think, the older they get. Harder to remember to take the time to just be. There are lunches to pack and clothes to lay out. School busses and baby sitters and swim lessons and family dinner and a hundred other things, and it’s hard to remember that each moment is only this moment once. She will only say “wuv” instead of “love” for so long. His “h” will not always be the largest letter in his name. As much as I want them to always be little, I am excited to see who they are going to be. What they are going to do with their lives. I can only hope that no matter how big they get, I never forget how much these moments, the moments that stretch into eternity but are at the same time gone too soon, mean.