a letter to a year ago

I keep having this vision in my mind of going back to a year ago and telling my very pregnant self to be patient and enjoy each and every moment. Who knew that a year could come and go so quickly? Certainly not me; not me at all. I would go back and tell myself that this baby will come in the blink of an eye. And before you blink again that little seven pound three ounce baby with the skinniest but strongest legs and healthiest pair of lungs and eyes the color of storm clouds will suddenly be turning a whole year old and you will be laying in bed at night wondering how that is even possible. You will watch him climb up and down the stairs like it is the World's Best Jungle Gym and you will wonder how you ever held a quiet infant who could sort of hold his head up but it mostly bobbled and who couldn't roll over and took his time learning to sit up and crawl and refuses to stand unless he's got a death grip on something and knew nothing of this moving and talking and smiling and laughing baby. You won't remember life before him, or even what life was like yesterday because not only is everything happening in record time but each new phase, each new learned thing will leave such an imprint on your heart that it will be nearly impossible to remember the last new thing. They're still there; you just need to look extra hard to find them.

And thank God for the pictures. Thank God you never deleted any of them, even the blurry ones. Even the ones where your snap-happy husband took 15 of the same picture, you kept them all because you are one of those moms who has an unhealthy obsession with every single picture of her son. But thank God for those pictures because maybe your friend sends you one you forgot about that makes your heart skip a beat when you see the face of your hour-old son wrapped up in that white blanket with that gigantic red knit cap on his head. Your heart will skip a beat and you will be back in that hospital bed with your family surrounding you as your own mom holds her brand new grandson and even though you can't remember the specifics, you can remember those moments and that is just enough.

And then you're back to the now with a baby who is becoming quite the toddler who is asleep in his crib on his tummy with his bum in the air. If I could go back to a year ago when I was waking up every three hours to feed that hungry boy, I would assure myself that he will sleep through the night. And even though those feedings sometimes feel like an eternity and nights only take half of a second, a year is somehow shorter and faster and you will cherish those nights spent rocking a hungry baby back to sleep and rubbing bald his soft little head. And even though you hardly sleep now, it's because you're spending your nights whispering prayers of love and protection and reminiscing with your husband about the antics of that sleeping baby boy. You'll never tire of this new sleepless life because there has never, in the whole world, been a better or sweeter or more important reason for lack of sleep. 

These moments are fleeting. I would tell myself that.