When I was at work earlier today I was struck how much I miss Graham.
Not because I was at work and he was being cared for by someone else: I’m perfectly content to be a working mom.
My heart ached with yearning today because my gaze lingered too long on this photo I keep at my desk.
And I was suddenly struck by the fact that I will never, ever see that darling baby again.
As parents we are accustomed to lamenting the passage of time and the rate at which our children grow. From the moment pregnancy is confirmed we are admonished to savor every moment because it will all pass in the blink of an eye.
But no matter how much people warn you, it is impossible to prepare yourself for the intensity of parenting.
It is impossible to imagine how inexplicably moved you will feel by the mere passage of time. It is impossible to imagine the heartbreak of watching the babies and children you love disappear day after day and night after night.
Not that their replacements aren’t some consolation: I love my tall and gangly 28-and-a-half-month-old every bit as much as I loved that squat and chubby 11-month-old.
But I miss that baby.
And I miss this one.
And this one
And at the way, an old photo, stuck in a goofy frame at work, can make me feel so unbearably happy and proud and sad at the same time.