I often look back at photos. Usually at night. I feel as if I’m scrolling back a million years and to yesterday all at once.
Time has a new meaning when you become a mother.
It becomes a focal point.
Even though our days were always measured by it, now it’s a constant battle of willing it to stand still or wanting to rush moments through. Sometimes it’s just a blur of both.
And when you look back, which you’ll do, you’ll think of that time again.
You’ll miss yesterday even though you look forward to tomorrow.
And I’m looking at these photos, these videos of these chubby cheeks, belly laughs and my eyes sting. How could I have had some of the days I did, just look at them?
I found these days hard and utterly beautiful.
Motherhood can be a recipe for both, in fact I think it is. But as things become less frantic, when you shift into yourself again, you’ll look back and wish you had enjoyed every minute.
And there it is.
And I get it now.
This is why mothers that came before us say it.
Because maybe they didn’t either.
And now time has let out a long sigh of nostalgia and swept any shadows away.
I was meant to feel whatever I did in those moments, to learn the lessons.
That was my journey.
Maybe that’s the whole point.
It doesn’t change this huge consuming love we wear like a second skin.
I look at these photos and even though I remember,
parts are fading.
Even now.
And I miss them even though they’re right here. But I’m loving every bit of them today and even who they’ll be tomorrow.
It’s not that I want to go back, I just don’t want time to steal the details.
Every little detail.
Not every moment,
Just them, then.