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I wish I could freeze time

I wish I could freeze time.  I thought it over and over as I lay on the couch with your tiny body curled up on mine, our chests gently rising and falling in unison.  I was sore, exhausted and smelled like spit-up and night sweats, and I knew I should be sleeping, but I wanted to live every part of that moment.  I wanted to breathe in your newborn smell and watch your eyelids flutter as the afternoon sunlight and the muted sounds of spring streamed in through the blinds.  I wanted to lay there with you and forget about the world. 

I wish I could freeze time.  I thought it again as we sat on the porch watching a rare summer rain, my arms wrapped tightly around you as the thunder rolled in, and I told you how blessed I was to be your mom.  I thought it the first time you smiled, the first time you giggled and the first time you belly-laughed.   I thought it when Daddy and I laid blankets on the living room floor and spent a Sunday afternoon listening to Pandora while you practiced rolling around in between us.  I thought it when you first tasted food and looked disgusted and delighted all at the same time.  I thought it when you took a break from splashing in the bath to flash us your toothless grin, your long eyelashes stuck together and glistening with water.  I thought it when we sat on the floor by your jumper, laughing hysterically at the way it always made you giddy with excitement.  I thought it when you took your first wobbly step and the first time you said "I love you."   I thought it again and again and again.

I wish I could freeze time.
I wish I could keep you this age.
I wish I could keep you this size.
I wish I could keep this giggle and this facial expression and this pronunciation. 

But the clock hands kept turning and time never once froze.  And I'm thankful for that.   Because, really, where would I choose to stop this march of time, where would I press pause if this were a movie?  Where would that best day be when it seems the best days just keep coming?

Because if I had kept you my baby forever, I wouldn't have got to walk in your room this morning and see you standing there in your crib, all bedhead and smiles in your footed dinosaur pajamas, saying "Hi, mommy" in your little toddler voice.  And if I paused here, I wouldn't get to see what's next.  I wouldn't get to hear you squeal with excitement the first time you ride a bike or see your face light up the first time you put your feet in the ocean.   I wouldn't get to stay up late with you on a Friday night so we can make popcorn and watch your favorite movie.  I wouldn't get to see your face flush when we ran into your crush or see you walk the stage in a cap and gown.  And I want all those moments...and so many more.   I have to let go of who you were yesterday to meet the awesome person you'll be tomorrow.

So maybe I don't want to freeze time or even slow it down...I just don't want to let these moments slip through my fingers before I even realize the beauty I'm holding.  I want to remember that these fragile, fleeting moments are strung together and tied into days - days that move all too fast, but that just might be the best days of my life.

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