between you and me

June 26, 2012

In the baby stage it was so easy to capture every detail: Sits up. Eats bananas. Laughs. Cute. 23 pounds. It worked, until one day I sat down and a bland list of actions no longer seemed to hold the real meat of it– of you. It will always be further confirmation for me that babies are the floppy larval stage in the interim between first breath and soul. How do you describe someone in a paragraph? In five? It's impossible. One day I woke up and you were someone.

For a long time I struggled with what to do with my bright and terrifying new discovery. It challenged me to redefine how I was recording my experience. I have no desire to sit down and record a recap of all the things you did this week. You did those things (and some of them are certainly noteable) but you aren't those things. They tell me where you were but not who you are.

Lately it's only possible to describe little pieces of what I see, snippets in time of what being a parent is like. Peeking in through a tiny hole is the only way to cope with the enormity of what the situation has become. All I know how to do is to tell you about this morning, when I went into your room and you wrapped your arms around my neck and kissed my arm. That's something tangible I can use to filter a sliver of this gray immensity down into a compressed cube I can turn over in my hand.

Maybe if I compile enough pieces someday I can have an entire picture of you.

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