until then, there is him. and he's really great :) and i make a promise to myself every single day that our crazy rush-rush life will not translate into henry feeling like i don't have time for him or that the things he's exploring don't have importance. so we pay close attention to the ever so subtle differences in the carpet patterns as we play, and we practice over and over how to move from one side of the room to the other - but not by way of crawling! no, crawling is propostrous! and then it's how to reach far for a toy in the bath tub without flopping over - cause that's scary! that water! and we cuddle all sunday morning long while we let daddy sleep in. and we giggle, and tell secrets. for hours. because these weekends, these precious times with our little family, are so fleeting. and they're put on hold for month-long weeks that seem to move as slowly as dc rush hour traffic - sooooo slowly! yet, somehow, it all blurs together until henry is 10 months old and we've already lived in virginia for a year.
i was describing a memory i had to joey the other day, it was this time when i was all alone with my mom, i was maybe 10 or 11 years old. we were in the car, maybe running errands, and we stopped to put gas in the car. and she let me pump the gas all by myself for the first time. i remember most vividly that it was just her and me, and we smiled a lot. it was one of those moments that stuck, for some silly reason. do you have those memories too? joey said he calls those moments "movies moments", they're so perfect it feels like you're in a movie. and you remember them forever. our weekends lately, they all feel like movie moments. but ours is one of those 2 hour movies, so every weekend is just one scene. and they're so beautiful, but they go too fast. and then in the next scene the little boy, the star of the show, is a whole year older. and you mourn that a little bit, because you've missed out on a whole year between scenes. that's how i feel every single saturday morning. and every night, while i'm feeding huck his bedtime bottle, and it's dark so all i see is the shadow of him, arm slung over his face like the day has just wiped him clean out. a whole day, a whole week. i've missed it. i'm missing it. how do i stop missing it all?
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