“It was like I blinked, and he was 20,” She said to me. I was in the checkout at Old Navy and the woman behind me, admiring my littlest as he toddled about, said “It just goes so fast. Savor every minute. Don’t wish it away. Don’t blink.“
I smiled back at her. I completely and without any question knew what she is saying. My oldest is only six, but as I look at the minutes that make up the hours that build into the days that formed the weeks in his months into his years — all six of them — it sort of does feel like a blink. Like a singular moment in time. Rather than a thousand different ones. Did I wish it away? I wondered. Did I really blink… one time… did I blink too hard and miss the most important parts?
Then I looked at the wee tot. And I knew that his six years would be here in the same blink. And that the middlests would as well. And my heart sunk a bit. Because sometimes — some minutes, some hours, some days, some weeks — I know that in my mind, I find myself wanting to blink.
I thought about it as I scooped up the babe and walked out into the cold air. He gasped as the cold snapped into his lungs. I spread my open hand to his back and faced his head into my neck to shield him from the wintry air. And I wanted to blink. Just to get the cold from my eyes. But her words were in my mind it was like I blinked and I kept them wide. Afraid that I might forget this moment. Or that it might disappear just like that. That I might stop feeling him held tight to me. I didn’t want to blink. She told me it all happens in a blink. I must not blink.
As we returned home, I found myself taking measure of our moments. Of my moments with the biggers, too. All of the routine and the spontaneous. And I did so for the next several days. The reality became clear quite quickly. For all of the completely glorious moments that I wanted to have as our forever there may have been just as many hard moments that I wanted to wish away. For all of the moments I wanted to savor, I had a fair amount in which I wanted to blink. And it made me nervous. What have I been blinking away?
And so I kept taking note. Keeping a mental log.
Yesterday. Yesterday was sort of a day. Thank the God above that the sun was in full splendor. That the skies were clear. Because that. That I wanted to savor.
And then last night… I sat down with the baby in my lap. I turned off the light. He snuggled into me. And got to work. His bedtime feeding has been dwindling over the last month. He has been unable to truly settle. He’s incessantly kicked his legs about and hit his hand on my face throughout every bedtime feeding. And so I’d decided that it was time to be done. So I sat, prepared for his general shenanigans to ensue. But instead… instead he took his arm and hung it over his ear reaching his hand out and grazing it on my arm… setting it there and gently moving it against my skin. He moved it up and set it between my chest and my collar bone and I bent down my chin to hold his little hand in the crook of my neck. And he nursed. Quietly. Calmly. It was as if he knew. He knew that this was his last supper. The room was dark save a blue glow from the sound machine. The chair rocked back and forth. And he was content. And I savored. I thought about the first time I got to see him. The first time I got to hold him. The first time I got to nurse him. How we went the first few months with upwards of 12 feedings a day. How there was pumping. And supplemental feeding. And how it would take an hour at a time just to nurse. How I never ever in any part of me thought I’d still be doing two feedings a day at 15 months. How I never thought it would feel so special. How much it took to get him from there to here. To get me from here to there. But now, now we are here and as we rocked, it didn’t feel at all like I’d blinked. Sure, I’d had moments where I’d wished for it all to feel easier. But in just wishing, it didn’t just fast forward time. We still had to live those hours, together. And so it felt like we were right where we were supposed to be and that I’d actually been in his moments with him. And I thought about the middlest and all of his middlisms that have brought us to this point, I felt like I really lived all of those moments. Even the ones that I’d wished would go away. Like I’d kept my eyes peeled. And I knew that with the first, there were plenty of moments I blinked away at the very beginning. But justified it mentally, telling myself that it was a survival tool. Because it was. And so I felt thankful. Thankful for all the times where it feels like work so that I can truly savor and appreciate the times that feel so effortless. And it occurred to me once again… just like having to do the have tos so you can get to to do the get tos… maybe the times that we want to wish away are there so we can truly appreciate the ones where we want to hold on with the tightest grip. The moments where we want to blink exist so we realize the moments we want to savor.
You get through labor so you can appreciate the life you’ve been gifted. You get through the screaming for the smiles. You get through the no sleep to adore the vision of a slumbering babe. You get through the nine thousand diapers so you appreciate changing only a handful a day. And the list goes on and on. You soon realize, as you piece it all together, that the moments you want to blink and the moments you want to savor, they are equally necessary to your story.
I feel so guilty when I want to blink. Because I hear it over and over from those who have already lived this life, don’t blink… savor every moment… don’t wish it away. I don’t want to wish it away. The noise. The mess. The tears. The cries. But some days are difficult. And I don’t think we can pretend they aren’t. I can’t pretend that some moments don’t unravel me. Or that I can do it all or even half of it all, every single day. Sometimes. I do blink. Because I find it necessary. Because I just don’t know any other way.
But then, by grace, I am still given so many times to savor. Every single day, there is something… actually a million little things and handfuls of big things, to savor. The way their small hands still fit into mine. The way they fall in line most of the time. The way they fight with one another because they are just learning how to be humans. The way they sit at the breakfast table, giggling. The way their eyes still hold innocence and their hearts are still pure. The way becoming a mother has been becoming me. Those things are in every day. And what I hold to my heart.
And all of it… the blinkable moments, the savored moments, and the moment where I will think for myself that it all feels like one big blink and I am hugging each of them after they’ve received their diplomas… will form me into the woman adoring a toddling little one and telling a younger mother than I, “It goes by in a blink“ and my heart may sink a bit then, too. Because I may realize then that I should have wanted to savor it all. Or maybe, I’ll feel like I did it just right. For that, I am hopeful.
I hope, most of all, that even if I want to blink in the morsels of moments and even if I do blink, I will always savor the sum of experiences of being their mother. I won’t wish it away. I might blink. But through it all, I will be their mama. And the reality of that is definitely worth savoring.
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