She’s been begging me to cut her hair “short like yours, Mom” for a long time. Literally, “Moooooom, I’m begging you.” No way was I going to do that, knowing how long it takes to grow out and how 5-year-olds perceive time. There may be a trip to a real haircuttery in a few weeks to clean things up, but I seem to have done a reasonably good job. She’s pretty adorable in any case.
This morning, Nuala made a list of plants and animals. It is awesome.
This week, Bea’s babysitter observed that she likes to be startled. We’ve seen the same thing–and also that she’s learning to make all kinds of new noises. Enjoy!
…I looked at Huck then, aglow in the late-afternoon light, and I felt an upwelling of sadness, so sudden and overwhelming my eyes blurred with tears. I saw with unforgiving clarity that the moment would pass; it was already passing, even as I contemplated it. Life slides by from the present to the past so fast it sometimes seems we barely get a glimpse, barely get to register anything before we’re gone. Yet death is coming for all of us. Even me. Even Huck.
And then, just as quickly, a sense of joy and profound relief. I hadn’t missed it. However ephemeral the moment was, I was there, in it, fully present for it. The breeze was cool on my skin, I had nowhere else to be, and Huck was winding up.
This comes at the end of an article about a sabbatical from much of the internet, and particularly social media, which I am thinking often these days would be a good idea for my mental health, if only my professional life didn’t depend on it to a large degree. Maybe next semester. But anyway, these two paragraphs do so much to say how I feel about that baby and that big girl who live in our house. I can’t look at them or hold them or wipe their noses or rear ends without thinking about the inevitable future (growing up, growing old, all of us) and feel the depth of the present moment, simultaneously, all at once.