Trick of the Light

The other day, when I dropped Rain at preschool, he unzipped his coat, found a hook, hung it up, placed his boots neatly underneath and marched confidently off to find something to do. The teacher got him set up showing a younger boy how to use a set of plastic gears. I was amazed at how big he was, how tall, how grown-up, how helpful, how knowing.

That night, he had a bad dream. I heard him crying and went to his room. In the dark, I held him. His little body shook and his voice broke with sobs. How like a baby he still was! I smoothed the curls on his sweaty forehead and offered him “a pinch.” His still-dimpled hand found my forearm and methodically squeazed the muscle, just as he used to when he was nursing at 10 months old. How strange that in the dark, in the night, he was still my baby, still clinging desperately to me as I whispered that he was safe.

I have this same experience every day with his younger sister Noa. As she giggles and runs after her older brother, how cute and big she seems. How stubborn and determined when they fight, when Rain takes her toy and she defiantly shouts “No!” How like a little girl she is in the day-to-day moments of life. Walking, talking, climbing.

Sit down to breastfeed and it’s another story. I trace the curve of her nose, marvel at the downy hair on her cheek, the pout of her lower lip. She sucks contentedly and I try again to memorize her face, just as it is. Suddenly she seems to be my baby again. Her face innocent and newborn-like, despite that her wee head is at least four times bigger than it was the day I first craddled it in my palm.

One moment so big; the next so small. Is it a trick of the light? How is it that one moment we’ve finally gotten used to the fact that they are growing up and the next we are once again brought to our knees by the utter tiny-ness and dependence of them? Something shifts and we see how tightly they are still tied to us and then just as quickly the veil is drawn aside and they are running from us, laughing.

I am often astounded that children can seem to suddenly cross into a new developmental stage all at once. I’ve seen this in my own children and in my friends’ children. Overnight they seem to shift from floppy newborn to chubby baby, from squirming toddler to running, jumping full-fledged boy. It is breathtaking and always provokes a complex reaction in me: part pride, part shock. There is always the sad surprise that I’ve had to part with the last stage without being asked, without preparation. Suddenly, it’s gone and I’m loving the next stage.

How grateful I am to discover that just as suddenly there are momentary lapses into the previous stage.  Would it be too unbearable to watch the speed with which our kids grow up if it weren’t for these tiny reprieves?  I savour these as best I can. I record them with my senses, in my muscle memory, the weight of their bodies in my arms, the smell of their hair, the whisper of their breath on my cheek. I pack them away, knowing that quickly, suddenly, the light will change and the baby will be gone again.

Time gently grants us this fleeting grace as she marches forward. A minute here, a minute there, a ray of sunshine as our babies walk confidently out of our embrace.