Too Quick

Babies are such conundrums. As soon as you get to know them, they become someone else entirely. Silas is still so new that I sometimes look at him in surprise and wonder who this small person is, with the oversized head, my shirt in his fist, and his drool on my shoulder. I look at him and say, "Oh, hello! Where did you come from?" And then I blink and when I open my eyes again, he's got chubby roly-poly arms and is grinning great, big, genuine, toothless grins at everyone he sees. I blink again and when I open my eyes, he's got longer eyelashes and darker peach fuzz hair on his head. I take a thousand pictures every day in an effort to say, "Slow down a minute buddy!" And how many times a day do I think to myself, "This is my last one, my littlest baby, and the last time I'll experience just this thing in just this way." And I try to hold on, and hold on, and hold on tighter. But each new thing just slips through my fingers anyway, with no regard for my silly, sappy, nostalgic self.