Let's back up

It's late. It's quiet. I was just about to shut the laptop when this photograph struck me with emotion. More than four months have passed since Miles was born and for some reason I haven't, until now, considered the gravity of the event. I look now into his eyes in this photograph and I am floored by so many thoughts, the most poignant of which is the amazement of how far he has come.

Born at 5lbs and a couple of weeks early, Miles Harold Michel Bremer--proudly double-middle-named after his two grandpas--was as healthy as a horse, just not as big as one. Before leaving the hospital, he had to prove a few things to the Fairview Ridges Hospital nursing staff. I can eat. I can poo. I can keep warm. Emily and I and our new son spent a total of ten days in the hospital while Miles did just those things. It was our curse for such a quick delivery. (Emily will always remind me that the labor, on the other hand, was brutal...that story another time). Finally being released to go home was the greatest day, and although Miles spent a week or so wrapped in a BiliBlanket (Google this if necessary) to keep him from looking like a Simpson, we eventually felt like a family.

But our lives have definitely gotten crazier. Having a child really does change your life and the time spent adjusting sometimes keeps you from seeing the bigger picture and realizing that these days will not last forever. And I know it must happen to other first-time parents: anticipating the child with such a set of expectations only to have things happen in a completely different sequence and fashion. In baby mode, I have trouble remembering a minute into the past, much less plan for those in the future. But those minutes add up, and while change is not measurable from moment to moment, change does occur.

And it's not until you find a quiet moment, late at night, nearly ready to shut off your laptop when something catches your eye...and you see it...

...and I remember why part of me senses four months have been in slow motion. This part that feels the pain of sleepless nights, ringing ears, smelly diapers, and my own impatience. But a larger part of me will never know where the time went. This part of me looks at a photograph of my son twelve days old wearing a knit yellow cap that, today, is too small. Young but growing. Helpless but learning. Small to the world but loved more than he will ever know.