Some days we don’t know if we are coming or going. Hours are swallowed up in the whirlwind of feeding and changing and winding and changing and comforting and playing and feeding and changing and napping and changing and feeding et cetera.
Somewhere amidst all of this we manage to get the dog walked, to eat, to sleep. To work. To rush home before bedtime.
We try to memorise the shape of your small, round bodies. The curves on your thighs. The softness of your cheeks. The scratch of your fingernails against our skin. The width of your toothless smiles when you catch sight of us, the way that you answer our queries in cooing nonsensical babbles.
We try to remember that you are not the babies that you were last month, last week. That the babies that you were then are gone forever. That next week, the babies that you are now will be lost to us. That you are growing and changing more rapidly now than you ever will again in your lives.
That you are not ours to keep. That you are your own.
You are wonderful in the literal sense. Our days are filled with wonder. We marvel at the changes even as we mourn them, rejoice in the new skills that you pick up seemingly by magic overnight.
And just as we get to know you again, you are gone.