This morning, Caleb asked for a "metal spoon." Now there is a dog that needs bathing, blankets that need folding, and dishes that need washing, but I can't be bothered with such things today. I find myself tapping away at a keyboard, as if that will somehow soothe the beating of my heart and the tears threatening to fall. My baby asked for a metal spoon, and I am suddenly undone.
For years (ten and a half to be exact), Ikea plastic spoons have been our utensil of choice. They were bright and colorful and came in packs with matching forks and knives. They matched the cups and plates - all now untouched in the far right kitchen cabinet. Untouched and unnecessary. Like the jogging stroller we just donated. And the tiny blue bike helmet that no longer fits.
Time doesn't march on. It races by like a cheetah. Try to focus, to look closely, and you miss it. Caleb asked for a metal spoon.
The toy room has evolved. Little People moved out, and Power Rangers moved in. Shoe-tying competitions have begun. "No, I want to do it!" is the refrain heard throughout the day.
These are all good things. This is progress, right? Oh, but why does progress have to sting? How long will my eldest, all arms and legs, allow me to pull him into my lap for morning snuggles where I breathe deep the smell of his hair? How long will not-so-baby-girl ask me to scratch her ever-lengthening back at night? When will middle boy lose that tiny front tooth? When will baby boy graduate to metal spoons? Today.
It happens in a blink. So today I will live my life with eyes wide open. I will strain to see that cheetah and catch it by its tail. Today I will live moment by moment by moment with my darling, changing, growing dears.
For years (ten and a half to be exact), Ikea plastic spoons have been our utensil of choice. They were bright and colorful and came in packs with matching forks and knives. They matched the cups and plates - all now untouched in the far right kitchen cabinet. Untouched and unnecessary. Like the jogging stroller we just donated. And the tiny blue bike helmet that no longer fits.
Time doesn't march on. It races by like a cheetah. Try to focus, to look closely, and you miss it. Caleb asked for a metal spoon.
The toy room has evolved. Little People moved out, and Power Rangers moved in. Shoe-tying competitions have begun. "No, I want to do it!" is the refrain heard throughout the day.
These are all good things. This is progress, right? Oh, but why does progress have to sting? How long will my eldest, all arms and legs, allow me to pull him into my lap for morning snuggles where I breathe deep the smell of his hair? How long will not-so-baby-girl ask me to scratch her ever-lengthening back at night? When will middle boy lose that tiny front tooth? When will baby boy graduate to metal spoons? Today.
It happens in a blink. So today I will live my life with eyes wide open. I will strain to see that cheetah and catch it by its tail. Today I will live moment by moment by moment with my darling, changing, growing dears.
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