I clung to their infancy. I wanted to stretch out each moment until it was gossamer thin. I hated going up sizes in clothing. The move from months to years seemed especially unfair, and I scowled when the soles of their shoes turned hard and sturdy. In a small box on a top shelf I have one newborn diaper, an old pacifier, an outfit, and feather-soft hair taped to an index card. First haircut, last bottle. I have a box full of the miracles of them being.
I now cling to post-its. I read the stories they contain, the retelling of miracles from a new perspective. My hands are full of the miracles of who they are becoming.