As dawn breaks, I find myself sipping coffee, tackling the dishes, and organizing my writing tasks—all while my newborn, Leo, sleeps just a few feet away. Ironically, he kept us awake most of the night. Today marks his one-month milestone, yet sleep seems to be a distant dream; it’s a common tale among infants at this age, or so I’ve been told. Our lavish bassinet remains largely untouched as Leo prefers to communicate through a series of sounds reminiscent of a baby dragon. This means I spend countless sleepless hours checking on him, making sure he’s safe and lifting him when his noises escalate to that unmistakable cue: “Hold me, or else!” While I can’t quite gauge my sleep hours from last night, I’m slowly adapting to functioning on minimal rest.
I often catch myself wishing for the future—counting down the months until he can sit up or eagerly anticipating the holidays. Just last week, I found myself glancing ahead to my six-week postpartum checkup in October, longing for relief from the aches of recovery. Amidst this, I fantasize about the fabled moment when parenting becomes a breeze.
Yet, with every wish for the future, guilt creeps in. I know that someday I’ll look back and regret rushing through these fleeting moments. I’ve experienced that regret before. As a teenager, I spent sweltering weekends at a historical museum, donning heavy attire while demonstrating candle-making to uninterested tourists. Those hours felt endless, and I often wished to magically skip to evening. However, I now look back and realize how those days, too, have slipped away.
In one of my treasured novels, Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, the protagonist reflects on this same longing. When faced with a fire drill in the middle of the night, one character wishes for it to be over, only to realize that everything else passes quickly, as well. Those sentiments resonate with me every time I find myself wishing away these early weeks of Leo’s life. Each moment contains tiny treasures—like the quirky faces he makes when I kiss his nose or how he curls up like a little frog on my lap after a feeding. I also cherish the lighthearted moments, such as when my partner mistakenly thought Leo’s onesie read “Oven-Roasted Turkey” during a late-night diaper change. And there are the tranquil early morning hours that I never truly appreciated until now.
However, savoring these moments becomes challenging when I’m exhausted and longing for sleep or when pain made it difficult to hold him in the hospital. In those trying times, I remind myself that this phase, like all others, will eventually pass. Yet, the thought of everything else also passing makes me melancholic, leaving me nostalgic for memories that haven’t even yet materialized. I find myself missing today, even as it has just begun.
This creates a peculiar cycle of longing, and I’m unsure how to escape it. Perhaps the best approach is to cherish what I can, release what I cannot, and document the memories I want to hold on to. One crucial lesson I’ve learned is that time accelerates as we age; a year felt like an eternity as a child, while it can feel like merely a month as an adult.
So yes, this phase will pass, both good and bad. While “now” is a reality, I am determined to appreciate it fully. If I strive to do my best in this moment, that should suffice.
If you’re interested in more parenting insights, check out this post on home insemination, as well as this excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination. For additional perspectives on parenting, visit Modern Family Blog.
In summary, while it’s easy to wish for the future, it’s essential to acknowledge and embrace the present moments of our children’s lives, no matter how fleeting they may be.