It’s Saturday morning, one of only two days each week my husband is still home when my son and I wake up. After breakfast for them and an extra bit of sleep for me, my son bursts into the room.
“Mommy!” he exclaims as he runs over to the bed, his little head the only thing that pops up over the side of it. “Up!” he says, as my husband follows him in. “Peas!” he asks, simultaneously rubbing his hand on his chest, as my husband pulls him up on the bed. He crawls over to me, his hand searching for some edge of my shirt before he leans in and sticks his thumb in his mouth.
“Book!” he exclaims moments later, edging himself off the bed and rushing off to his room to get a book for us to read. He returns triumphantly, book in hand, and repeats his plea to join us on the bed.
My husband grabs his hands and pulls him up so he can snuggle into my lap and listen to the story he’s chosen. Our family of three then enjoys some Saturday morning snuggles, like we used to in the early days of our son’s life. He giggles as we tickle him, flits in and out of the room in search of a new book to read, and asks to get down far sooner than he used to, but the sweetness is there all the same.
“I know it’s impractical,” I say to my husband, “but sometimes I wish we could have a photographer here to capture these moments.”
“We’re the ones to capture them,” he says.
I am an easily distracted person. Not in the way you might think, where my attention flits about like a hummingbird, wings flapping a mile a minute and never slowing down, leaving a pile of partially finished tasks behind me.
Rather, I am someone who can, at times, find it difficult to remain fully present because my brain is engaged elsewhere, often focused intently on a particular problem, project, or idea. I can be a bit obsessive about things, and it often distracts me from the moment right in front of me.
I may be physically present, and not even have some obvious distraction like a phone in my hand, but I am distracted all the same.
//
My son is growing up. He no longer looks like a baby, but instead like a little boy. I think back to how little he was just a year or even six months ago, and it makes me want to cry a little bit.
My nephew, the one who made me an aunt, is already seven and will likely outpace me in height within the next year or two, even though it feels like yesterday that I was running around the park with him at 15 months old.
The days are long, they say, but the years are short.
I’m more aware now than ever of how quickly time slips by as I watch my son run around the house and add words to his vocabulary with each passing day. I want to bottle up the moments, keep him my baby boy forever, though I know that isn’t possible or practical.
I want to capture the moments and memories and tuck them away to cherish always.
Like the way he runs with his arms outstretched behind like he’s about to take flight, or how he almost stomps more than walks, with one arm swinging violently. I want to remember the joy in his voice as he says “hi” each morning when I walk into his room or “bye” to every stranger that passes by with the slightest, totally inexplicable southern twang.
I want to memorize the softness of his skin and the way it feels when he snuggles into my side. How he perpetually chooses the bottom of my skirt or the hem of my shirt in lieu of a blanket whenever he’s in need of comfort. His obsession with climbing on and off chairs and couches, or the way he constantly says “up” when he means “down.” The way his face lights up when he sees his dada, and how he starts saying “baba” whenever we turn down my parents’ street.
How he makes a beeline for the stool whenever it’s time to make dinner, the way he loves to help with chores around the house, and his utter fascination with watching the washing machine. The meticulous way he closes every open drawer, puts away every stray shoe, and immediately requests a towel whenever he sees the slightest drop of water on the floor.
His obsession with bubbles and love for books. How at least once a day he randomly says “hi” to me and his dada. The way he can hardly contain his excitement about nearly everything, and how he starts listing off the sounds of various animals, parts of the body, or pieces of clothing out of nowhere. All of these things and so many more.
My instinct is to document it all. To make use of the technology at our disposal and snap picture after picture, record video after video, so I can look at them and watch them to remind myself of how little he was when he no longer is.
But I know that’s not really the answer, because I can’t truly be present in the moment if I’m recording or documenting it. I can’t soak my son in as he is now if I’m perpetually on the lookout for the picture perfect moment. In fact, looking for that picture perfect moment may actually mean I remember these sweet moments less.
To truly treasure the season that’s so fleeting, I have to put the phone and camera down. I have to set the projects and problems aside and sit on the floor, choosing to be present in lieu of perpetually taking pictures.
A professional photographer as a fly on the wall would be great, but my husband’s right… we’re the ones to capture these moments, whether by writing them down, talking about them at night after our son goes to sleep, or simply being there and soaking them up as they happen.