Bob circa 2008
With Bob, I have been primed to be on the lookout for all of the "firsts." His (as yet unfinished) baby book prompts me to record his first steps, first words, his first tooth. Then there are the sneakier firsts, the little benchmarks that I didn't realize I was waiting for until they arrived: the first hand print Thanksgiving turkey, the first macaroni necklace, the first time he slept through the night.
There are also the lasts: the last time nursing, the last time in the baby swing at the park, the dreaded last nap. I usually don't realize that it is a last until the moment has come and gone. Right now I am too aware of the possibility of the lasts. I wonder when we cross the street, will this be the last time he'll let me hold his hand in the crosswalk? Is this the last time he will need help tying his shoes?
All of this longing for the past and nostalgia for the future pulls me out of the present, where all of the miraculous and heartbreaking stuff is happening. Every day holds something new and if I'm caught looking in the other direction, I will miss things. I don't want to miss things.