Please stop getting older.

My sweet boy,

It’s amazing how welcoming a new baby makes you realize how old (and heavy!) your first baby is. Unfortunately, it also means I spend more time with Eliza than you, my little monster.

It won’t be this way forever. But we are forever changed.

I need to tell you how hard I’m trying.

Monster man, I’m trying to spend quality time with you while taking care of her. I’m trying to keep your routine as close to normal as I can. I’m trying to help you sleep through the night – which you had been doing fine before she came.

And mostly, I’m trying to hang on to the memories we are making.

As I look at your sister, it hits me how quickly the years with you have already slipped through my fingers. The other night I came across a video your dad took when you were just about a year old. As I watched, I couldn’t believe how already, I had forgotten what your little voice sounded like then, or how your hair used to look, or how sweet your chubby face was (… and still is).

How do I hold on to those moments? How will I remember those moments I am now having with your sister?

Right before I sat down to write this, I heard loud banging coming from the playroom. It was your “quiet time,” during which you do a great job of playing by yourself for an hour or two.

As I walked up the stairs to check on you, I could hear Michael Jackson’s “I’m Bad” coming from the playroom. (You like watching movies while having alone time, and this song plays at the end of one of them.)

I peered around the door and saw that the banging was not you pulling over bookshelves, as I had feared, but it was the sound of your little feet stomping and dancing.

You were twisting and turning on the carpet, having yourself a little jam session, watching the cartoons from the movie dance and trying to replicate their movements.

And the best part: You were trying your best to sing along.

“Bad, I bad, … know it. And .. the world … and ummm … WHO’S BAD!” you were singing.

I thought then, as I have done many times over the last few years, “I need to remember this. I need to remember this moment forever.”

Will I?


I know there are some things I will never forget, like your first steps or watching you stomp around in your shark costume on your first Halloween.

I know there are other moments that I’ll call to mind only after triggers – like how you used to say “Yo!” and think it was hysterical.

And I know there are little things that I have already forgotten.

Now, there are two of you. You’ll receive less attention, and she’ll never get the kind of one-on-one time I had with you.

Like I said, buddy, I’m trying.

I’m trying to cling to every one of your smiles and every one of her baby noises.
I’m trying to remember the way you say “Shorry!” and run off laughing when you spill something.
I’m trying to savor the way the top of your sister’s head smells – that wonderful baby smell.

I’m only two and a half years into this parenting thing, and already I know how these moments are precious not just because you are my children, but because these memories fade almost as quickly as we make them.

We’re on an adventure, my little friend. I hope we remember to take enough pictures.



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