When they hand you the fresh new baby in the hospital, they don’t tell you that at every moment your heart soars with pride and joy, from then until forever, it will simultaneously break into a thousand pieces as you mourn your baby growing up.
Time slips right out of your fingers and you have no choice but to let it go. No matter how hard you try to savor them and keep them longer, moments slip by and leave you catching your breath as you try to keep up.
From the hospital bed, you never could have imagined that in one moment you could be so proud to see your baby’s first tooth finally push through and at the same time mourn their gummy, toothless smile.
Or that 5 years later in a moment full of pride, you would be celebrating a lost tooth and take pictures of her new toothless grin, but the moment she went to bed you’d cry yourself to sleep because you’ll never again take a picture of her baby-toothed smile.
You could never have imagined how exciting it is to get ready for her first day of Kindergarten and to know without a doubt how ready she is, and yet experience such ungodly fear and dread at the idea of leaving her somewhere for 6 hours every day for the next 13 years, knowing that you’re giving up whenever-we-want coffee dates and zoo dates and lunch time with her little sister and slow mornings on the couch and the innocence of never having had her heart broken and not having experienced the disappointments that are to come.
But you can’t stop it. Time slips right through your fingers and you have no choice but to let it go, to keep moving forward.
They don’t tell you all that in the hospital. They just give you the baby and let you smile with pride and joy. That’s the one moment you get to savor and keep for a while. I think it’s because they know. They know that the next time you beam with pride and joy, you’ll simultaneously break into a thousand pieces, from then until forever.