Tonight, I laid in bed with my boys. By light of lava lamp and PJ clad, we three cuddled and chatted until they fell asleep and all that was left to be heard were the sounds of Luna's Bewitched album playing softly in the background. The same album that played in my college dorm room - how distant and unreal it seemed that I would use that same CD to lull my babies to sleep one day.
They drifted asleep and I remembered the days they were each born. I remembered bringing them home and the challenges that faced us ... in those days.
In a way, it seemed easier when they were infants. They were completely dependent and if there was crying we would run down the check list and start trying to figure out what exactly would get them to stop crying: diaper, hungry, cold, hot, bored, fever, teething (?). It wasn't easier to live sleep deprived, I will give them that - but they hadn't yet developed personalities and there was no need for psychology - except on myself in my insanity by sleep deprivation state.
Now they are big boys. They are 5 and 2 years old. It goes by so fast - its almost unfair. Except that it is fair - because time has never moved slower or faster for any mother in history. The clock ticks the same in 2009 as it did in 1977, 1949, and 1931. It will tick the same in 2029 too.
I watched my little one as he slept. I watched his little face as he peacefully gave in to slumber and his little chubby, toddler hands loosen their grip around his favorite pillow. The thought crept in that as I get older, I might forget that moment. I might forget how their hands felt when they reached up to hold hands. Or the warmth of their little bodies when they snuggle up with me on the couch to watch cartoons. Or the sounds of their giggles and of their young voices. Tonight, Ethan asked me, in his sweet two year old voice and slightly broken (yet native) English, "Mommy, may I have a book please?" While I might write those words down to remember always, I will probably forget the pitch of his voice and the inflection of his words, the expression on his face. Gabriel asked if he could get down from the bed to get a book as well. After he was granted permission, he came over to me, hugged me tightly around my leg and said in his sweet five year old voice, "I didn't really want a book, I just wanted to get out of bed to give you a hug." The thought that I will, one day, forget these times, breaks my heart.
How much of this can I soak in before I start to overflow? How can I hold on to each and every moment? It can't be possible. But for now, I am trying to memorize every single moment.