How do you measure a year?
Today, my daughter is
7 seasons of Deep Space 9
6 seasons of Bones
5 seasons of Once Upon a Time
4 seasons of Community
3 seasons of Brooklyn 99
1 season of The Wiggles
1 memorized Sleep Book
4 animal noises
1 hip brace
I thought I’d mark the occasion with a profound essay, as is my wont. But I’m not entirely sure what to write. Jokingly, I’ll say I’m too tired to think or I still have babybrain, but if I’m honest, it’s because–possibly for the first time–I’ve had to be so present in the moment that there isn’t time for the level of navel-gazing I prefer. I haven’t decided how I feel about that yet.
When Mackenzie was seven days old, I turned to my mom and said, “This week has been the longest day of my life.” That feeling hasn’t gone away. I can’t understand how time is passing; my inner chronometer tells me it’s barely been six months. How can a single winter morning never end and it already be spring again?
There are days that when she wakes up she’s different than when she went to sleep and it stops my heart a little because time is slipping past without my permission.
The cliche is true: The days are long, but the years are short.
I’ve been stretched, torn, broken, erased, and spent. I’ve also been expanded, healed, strengthened, refreshed, and empowered.
I don’t feed myself well, I’m having trouble walking again, and I just get so angry. I also never get tired of Blue’s Clues, I carry her everywhere, and I once ate scrambled eggs that fell out of her mouth.
Sometimes I wish she’d never been born. Sometimes I cry because she’s so precious.
Today, we are one.