The thing about Number Two is that I know exactly how fleeting his infancy will be. I didn't have that awareness with The Boss. I guess I thought she'd be tiny forever. Certainly there was bliss in that ignorance, but what remains is a lack of memory for the details.
The rub of it is this: now that I understand the quickness, I've become so preoccupied with it that I still cannot enjoy the moment, what with all my fear for the remembering. I feel pressure to record everything, but this "everything" is so expansive that I don't know where to begin. Sometimes I don't. I get caught up in trivialities that are less daunting. Volunteer projects. Playdates. Yesterday I filled out a page and a half of Number Two's baby book and considered the effort a success.
But behind those everyday moments, my son still snuffles like a horse. He looks at everything with widening eyes that are, of course, turning hazel like his father's. His feet have outgrown all socks sized 0-3 months, even though that classification still fits the rest of his lean frame. More often than not, he smells stinky-sweet from a diaper that needs changing. He's often attached to my breast, hanging vertical, while I chase after something his sister needs--a drink, a snack, a pair of underwear pulled back up, a channel changed on the TV. Sometimes he looks so incredibly cute. Other times the plate of his forehead threatens to take over, and I can only hope that this kid has an unusually large brain. Like his father.
And that's the line. Between living and remembering. Right now I'm walking it like a tightrope, which is exciting if not a bit nauseating. Falling off is not an option; the only choice is getting used to the callouses where the wire bisects each bare foot.