Blink

Tomorrow, you complete four whole years on this planet and they were right, it was a blink— a hazy, euphoric, life shattering, life giving, relentless, dreamy, magical blink.

And here you are. Emerging from the fog, my favorite little human, fully-formed and spewing facts about how birds evolved from dinosaurs and orangutans have learned to use medicinal plants on their babies.

"Mom, do you like to be surprised?" you ask, "Did you know that lions run from bees?"

I do and I didn't. 

I promised myself from the start that I would never wish you smaller. Instead, I slow time the only way I know how, by slowing myself. 

I slow to take in the details of the incredible little being that you are in this moment. I pause in the chaos to observe the unique artifacts of three: your precious dino field guide on the bedside table, tiny toy animals tucked in every crevice, a bag of wet pool towels perpetually waiting to be hung up.

I snuggle this you tight. I do my best to wrap him in words with hopes that I may carry him with me as you become someone new.