Before becoming a mom, I thought the big milestones would be the moments I would want to remember most.
The first smile.
The first time she rolled over.
The first tooth.
And don't get me wrong, I do want to remember all of those things.
But lately, I've realized that some of the moments I'm most afraid of forgetting aren't milestones at all.
They're completely ordinary things that happen every single day.
The things that seem so normal right now that I barely think twice about them.
And somehow, I have a feeling they're going to be the things I miss the most.
The way she holds onto me
There's something about those tiny hands.
The way they grab your shirt while you are holding her.
The way she rests her head on your shoulder when she gets tired.
The way she places her hand on your face when you talk to her.
Her hands won't always be this little.
And I don't think I'm ready for that.
Our everyday routines
There is nothing particularly exciting about getting ready in the morning.
We do it all the time.
But somewhere along the way, we've created our own little rhythm.
I walk into her room at 6 am.
We take off her sleep sack. She does her stretches.
We change her diaper.
We put on her lotions.
We get her outfit on for the day.
I hold her up to the mirror after and she smiles at herself.
It's not something that will ever make it into the milestones section of her baby book.
But it's ours.
And I want to remember it.
The sounds she makes
Babies are weird.
And loud.
And somehow capable of making noises you didn't know could come out of a human being.
Right now, she squeals. Blows respberries. Snorts when she laughs.
I know those sounds will eventually become words.
Someday I'll probably be desperate for five minutes of quiet.
But today?
I want ot remember exactly what she sounds like.
The mess that means she lives here
Before having a baby, I probably wouldn't have imagined feeling sentimental about toys on the floor and burp clothes in every room.
And I'm definitely not claiming I suddenly love clutter.
But every once in a while I look around and realize what all of it means.
There's a little person living here.
She's growing up here.
This is her home.
I want to remember her toys scattered on her playmat.
I take so many pictures of her.
And somehow, she still seems to change overnight.
Her cheeks.
Her little rolls.
Her hair.
Her expressions.
The way she fits against me when I hold her.
My favorite is the dimple when she smiles.
I know there will be so many wonderful versions of her that I haven't met yet.
But I already know I'm going to miss this one.
Motherhood makes it really easy to look ahead.
When will she sleep through the night?
When will she sit?
When will she crawl?
When will she talk?
When will this stage get easier?
There's always something next.
But I'm starting to realize that while I'm waiting for the next thing, this is her childhood, too.
The ordinary mornings.
The repetitive routines.
The toys on the floor.
The little hands reaching for me.
The days when nothing particularly exciting happened.
I hope I remember those.
Because maybe the ordinary parts weren't so ordinary after all.
Just wait, Mama.
One day, you might miss the days that feel completely normal right now.
Because not every “just wait” has to be a warning.