Pregnancy feels like it lasts forever, and then everything else speeds by so fast you don't have time to breathe. I held Noah and looked in the mirror yesterday, and said to Mat, I can't believe this boy was wrapped up in my belly 7 months ago. He now weighs 23 pounds, is 30 inches tall, and has so much hair styled in a comb over he looks like a miniature man.
He is gorgeous, vibrant, the life of the party. He is quick to laugh and slow to lose patience. One flash of that smile will win anyone over, and he uses it like a pro already.
In 7 months he has learned to sit, stand, and say Dada. He can grab little rice puffs and bring them to his mouth. He belly laughs at his sister, and is starting to sing along (dadaaa, daaaada, daaada seems to be his favorite) to nursery rhyme songs. He has two teeth and a big ol' belly. Just this week he's been getting on his hands and knees and rocking back and forth, ready to launch.
The 7 months before that, he grew from a grain of rice into a full-fledged baby, with all the parts and pieces he would ever need to navigate this world.
The 7 months before that. Hmmm. Let's see. I think I cleaned my closets and ordered a new pair of shoes. The discrepancy of progress is quite staggering. The brute force of new life also is.
I've been packing Noah's old clothes away, his tiny, unimaginable onesies and overalls and sweaters worn once. I can't wait to see what he looks like as a little boy; what he has to say when he can finally talk. And yet the desire to hold his newborn body on my shoulder just once more is so strong it drives me to tears.
The only way I have to hold on is by doing this. By bringing myself back, making note of the feelings, the steps, the small and big milestones that make up a life. My memory is horrible, and so this I must do. His future embarrassment by his mother depends on it.
