Soon he'd found a random towel to keep my bare arm warm, he'd judiciously meted out a small dose of kisses, and read me a book (which consisted of him flicking through the pages silently, looking at the pictures). All the while, I lay there looking at him. Looking, looking, drinking in that very moment with the tight knowledge that it was slipping away with every ticked second.
I know I am not the first person to think these thoughts. (Although they are so much more profound when you think them, no?) I am actually quite aware that there are whole spiritual traditions that help us think this stuff through. It's just that, sometimes you need to say it out aloud. Sometimes you need to say, despite my quest to flow seamlessly with the river of life, sometimes, when you're right in the middle of watching your own little human becoming the little human he is, you just want to grab an overhanging branch and hold on for dear life. Just to stop for a second and hold it all awhile.
Except you can't. Or should that be--accept I can't.
In the middle of days that are full, exhausting, boring, joyful, funny, exquisite, painful, we often look at each other, my OTL and I, in recognition. For as ordinary and everyday as it all inevitably is—the couch does smell of pee, after all—it is also simply breathtaking.
These photos: High on Tiny's list of Fantastic Things To Do at the moment is to make popsicles from oranges, wait interminably for them to "get solid", and then eat them in the way that all three year olds do, completely in the moment.