On Thursday Jack took four tottering, deliberate steps from my arms to my sisters arms. That night I nursed him and sang his bedtime song and just cried. He is still a baby, but seeing his little body move hesitantly away from the security of my arms was just so...big.
I question constantly if I am doing it right, savoring his smiles enough, the smell of his hair, the drooly open mouthed kisses, the feel of his chubby hands on my neck, the way he looks up at me while he nurses, the giggles reserved solely for Daddy -- it's all so daily that I sometimes take it for granted. Then bam...he walks. I want to beg the hourglass to slow down, to give us a few more days in a week, more months in a year, just another handful of sand, please?
I chant "Go, Jack, go!" as he learns to get his feet under control, but part of me wants to cry, to take him in my arms and keep him my dependent little baby. I proudly show off his new standing skills, all the while wondering who took my squawking pink infant and replaced him with this little person who can demand a cracker? (cacka!) This first year has been slipping away.