I held you, mottled pink and silicon-fat arms. I gazed at you, with amazement and fright. I fed you, in the dark hours when the world had stopped except for us. I rocked you, when nothing else helped.

I changed you, picked up after you, I helped you to walk. I weaned you, I tickled you, I helped you to talk. I read you books, and again and again. I answered ‘what’s dat?’ and ‘why?’ and ‘but when?’

And each day passes and I realise: You’ve grown!

Now I teach you, though you don’t know it’s school. We play, because, well, why not? We read, because there are never enough books. We talk, because there are never enough questions. I save time to make time to spend it with you.

We dance, though we can’t and laugh, because it’s funny. And it’s hard to remember a time before you. (Though not impossible.)

Then evening comes and one by one you fall into my arms, your head on my shoulder, your hand stroking my skin. And I love you so much: more than anything.

That’s where my time has gone.

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This post has been written as part of a Blog Blast sponsored by the Parent Bloggers Network, in conjunction with Light Iris, a new site for mothers that’s all about saving time.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 8th, 2007 at 2:04 pm and is filed under Not Enough Children. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.