Time stretches before me like a magic carpet willing to take me anywhere. I remember back when I thought I’d never grow up, when the end always felt so far. Four years of college passed. Four years of my daughter’s life happened. Now the first four months of my second daughter’s life are nearly over. She was just born and soon she’ll be walking. Change happens without regard for the weary.
How is it that I am both the oldest I’ve ever been and the youngest I will ever be? How is it that I have children and a husband and a home of my own and all these terrifying adult responsibilities? It happened slowly over time, moment by moment, and yet so much of those moments have disappeared. Important things happen but they fade until the memories bear no distinction from dreams and I must ask myself: did that really happen or did I dream it?
Important things take place and I forget them completely as if they never happened at all. Either they fall into the vortex forever and I have no knowingness to miss them, or something reminds me. A picture, a person, an event. And though I may still not remember it for myself, I find comfort that I have a past. It’s out there. I’ve been living. I’ve been breathing for 29 years. The atmosphere contains me and I contain the atmosphere. Time unravels as it winds around itself. Time cannot be conquered nor reigned in nor slowed. So how do we cope with it?
Perhaps in another dimension we can manipulate time, but not here, not now.
I cope by writing about it and taking pictures of it and trying not to dwell on it. Time cannot be reigned in, but my thoughts can. I try to be happy about time rather than nostalgic. I collect moments to remember.
I spend a lot of time these days “wearing” Skyla. We both love it, the closeness and ease of nursing and napping and traveling this way. Occasionally she will be nursing in the pack and I will look down and see her staring at me. Or I will look down and see her smiling at me. And those eyes. And that smile. And that fuzzy little head. Joy pours out of me like smoke from a burning building.
She opens to this plane of being. Unfurling, unfolding, uncurling like the spiral of hair on the crown of her head. She stretches her limbs longer today than yesterday, grabbing and kicking at an understanding of what it means to exist here and now.
Giovanna is a force to be reckoned with, a spirited opinionated stubborn girl-child. She’s not my baby as much as she is her own person with awareness, consciousness, and a memory of her own. She doesn’t care much about following the rules at home. She draws on walls and sneaks downstairs when she’s supposed to be sleeping. She thinks her brother is the coolest and her sister the cutest. She loves them something fierce. She finds everything I might ever try to hide from her because she’s always looking, her brain is always turning. She reminds me every day to give her the gummy vitamins. She loves water balloons and dresses.
Emile turned eight last week. He is the sweetest handful. He likes to talk back and he thinks he knows everything there is to know. He is very willing to read stories to GiGi and help herd her to bed, though he’s not so keen on his own bedtime. He loves bugs, legos, playing with his little sister and holding his littlest sister. He loves babies. He is a bona fide boy with holes in his pants, dirt lodged beneath his fingernails, and a tendency to tackle. He calls me out when I let a swear world slips (he doesn’t like it). He is quick to forgive. He’s already up to my shoulders.
They take so much out of me. They keep me awake, they demand my time, they suck me dry. Yet I am willing to give more, I am willing to give everything. These moments are everything.