Memory is a curious phenomenon. My earliest recollection is a hazy image of my mother, pregnant with my sister, explaining the miracle of childbirth to me. I was just 3 years old, and that memory feels like trying to open my eyes underwater. A few months later, I have a vivid snapshot of the day my sister, Mia, came home from the hospital. I can’t recall her tiny features or the sensation of cradling her, but I vividly remember my outfit—a blue plaid dress adorned with train buttons—and the thrill of being the first to hold her, ahead of the neighborhood kids.
You are so new, my sweet Mia, so much smaller than 3, and it’s a strange thought that you won’t remember these precious days we share. Yet, I will carry this time like a tattoo, etched in my heart for a lifetime. The instant connection when we met, how we seamlessly fit together, and the beautiful (sometimes challenging) bond of nurturing.
Now at 4 months old, you’re blossoming into your own unique self. Amidst all the changes and milestones of these past few months, I’m surprised to find that some things are coming to an end. This realization brings a tinge of fear—not because I’m not excited to see you grow, but because I worry I might forget some of my favorite moments and how I’ll share them with you.
I remember how, almost from the start, you would make a little “oh” sound after a series of sneezes—later, even after each individual sneeze. We tried to capture it on video, but we were never quick enough. It brings to mind a line from a song I used to sing in the shower during my pregnancy: “Every time she sneezes, I believe it’s love.”
I recall the tender way you melted into the bath alongside your dad in those early weeks, feeling like a reunion. The secret smiles you flashed at me while feeding, often losing your latch, but neither of us minding. That one time you dealt with a sudden letdown by squeezing my breast and gulping the milk from your fist instead, and how you cheekily raised your middle finger while nursing—those moments are countless.
Then there’s the cradle you slept in, the same one that cradled your dad and uncles years ago. We paced the floor, sometimes collapsing on it, before finally bringing you into our bed. Your sleeping face, with lashes resembling crescent moons, and the seashell imprint of your ear on my skin after you dozed off in my arms are etched in my memory.
The day you finally learned to enjoy diaper changes was unforgettable; all it took was my enthusiastic rendition of “The Longest Time” by Billy Joel. Now, you smile in anticipation every time I lay you down on the changing table. Your face lit up when you first spotted your favorite toy, and we also discovered those adorable dimples.
You would excitedly chatter at my painting of your dad and our cat, even after a bout of crying, and that connection felt so profound, as if you understood it the way I do. You experience every sensation and emotion with your whole being, expressing it without hesitation. I adore how you clasp your hands near your face when you’re excited, how you beam at strangers, and the joy you radiate when you wake to see our faces. It’s thrilling and a little scary to think of the day when you won’t need me to hold you anymore.
These moments—these minutes, days, and weeks—don’t fit neatly into any baby book. They aren’t mere milestones, numbers, or checkboxes. One day, when we’re both older, I want to remember these special fragments of time, so I can share them with you.
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In summary, the memories we create during our children’s early years are priceless and irreplaceable. They shape our experiences and bond us together, even if they sometimes slip away from our minds. It’s our responsibility to cherish and preserve them as gifts for the future.