the littlest carscadden: 11 Months

It's a beautiful night tonight. The light is soft and a golden yellow. There is enough wind to move the curtains but not enough to blow our bedroom door closed. The temperature and humidity are that perfect mix where it's deliciously warm but not sticky.

I sit in an oversized glider and feed my baby. I know that our breastfeeding relationship will end in the near future. I only feed him in the mornings and at night now. It's bittersweet. My last baby. Almost one. These quiet moments will fade. I watch him closely while he feeds. Tonight, like the last few nights, he points his finger toward his eye, fascinated by the feel of his eyelashes against the tip of his finger. I think, "I'm going to forget this moment." I'm going to forget it in the whirlwind of work and professional commitments, social work meetings at Miles' school and the fact that Miles can read(!), hanging out with neighbors and vegging out in front of the TV, this moment will be lost. This moment that marks some small development in my baby's life, among so many other similar moments, will dim.

And maybe it's supposed to. One's brain can't hold on to every perfect moment. We remember the big ones, the ones that etch into our mind. Like Miles jumping up from the couch and screaming, "I can read!" after finishing a few sentences in a book. Will, walking, stomping his feet now, becoming a real person. Easter, where we've developed a tradition of hurling the eggs we dyed and watching them crash into pieces in the grandparents' back yard.

Recently, I was reflecting on this life, this family life, compared to my earlier one. Although I miss the spontaneity that comes with single life, like deciding to go to a movie an hour before it starts, I don't wish for another life. I don't wish for another set of kids. I don't wish for another family. I'm so very happy and fulfilled. And the sound of my baby's laugh, as I bury my head into his belly over and over and over and over and over again, sends so many endorphins coursing through my system, I don't know that anything could replicate or replace it. I get daily reminders of how lucky I am while quietly sitting with Miles. "Guess what mom?" "What?" "I love you." "I love you too, Miles."

I love these quiet moments with my kids. I'm glad I saved this one.

Here. Gaze upon these pictures of our nearly one year old and our nearly five year old.