You're Almost One, Baby

You're almost one, baby—but surely, it was only five minutes ago that you were a helpless newborn, feather-light in my arms.

I watch you now—crawling, standing, climbing; so close to walking—and you seem less and less like a baby and more like a little person.

Gone are the 2 a.m. feedings, those frozen moments with nothing but you and I and the deep stillness of the sleeping world around us;

The long days camped out on the couch in front of TV reruns while you nursed and slept, nursed and slept—so tiny I could hold you your little body in the crux of one arm;

The lazy afternoon naps with you curled up on my chest like a question mark, your head tucked under my chin, your steady breath warm and soothing against my neck.

Infancy passes in a heartbeat. You'll be a toddler soon—and it's just another heartbeat from walking to running, skipping, singing, dancing. 

Once, I was the centre of your universe. Now your world is expanding and, with it, your independence from me. This is normal and natural; this is as it should be. I can see you growing stronger and wiser.

But no matter how big you get or how old you are, I'll never forget 

The soft strands of your fine baby hair;
Your tiny fists holding fast to my shirt;
The sweet honeyed smell of your skin.

You're almost one, baby, and you're growing and changing every day. But I'll always be the guardian of your history. Because I knew you first.