One Year

The clock in my son’s room has begun ticking backwards.

Not always.

Just sometimes.

The minute hand jumps backward between the 6 and 7, usually in the middle of a beat of the song that I am humming.

I sway back and forth holding him as he falls asleep and I’m thankful for this extra minute, even if the rest of the world’s clocks don’t cooperate.

It gives me the feeling that I have just one more beat per measure with him. He is heavy now, but he still has that sweet baby smell.

My baby.

No matter how many claim that he’s theirs – and the list is long because he is, as he says constantly, good, good, good.

In those moments I don’t have to share him and he can just be mine.  But I know it is fleeting.  Everything is.

And so I take photographs.

His big sister teaches me how to be a better person every day. She is so brave. I am in awe of how many times a day she can surpass her prior limit.

“Having it all” is such a misnomer. There are different heartbreaks and sacrifices for every parent, every day, regardless of work situation. I’ve come to believe that we all have it all -all of the buckling pressure and love and swelling heart and worry and joy and angst.

All of it.

And it’s messy and fast and wonderful and scary.

And it doesn’t matter how many Pinterest-inspired organization tactics you try or don’t try, it will be chaotic at times.

And so I take photographs to slow it down and tick backwards between Frere Jacques and dormez vous?

Are you sleeping?

Morning bells are ringing.

Even if I’m not ready for them.