Gush.

A brief warning: It's official. Despite my half-hearted best attempts, this has now turned into a mommy blog. I can't help it. And if introspective ramblings and baby gushing bore or offend, you should probably save yourself now. Otherwise, read on.

We dodged worms on wet pavement on our morning walks this week. Smiled at the snow alerts sent via text by my little brother in Salt Lake. Leaves now litter the sidewalks. The seasons are once again changing.

Avie arrived with the last turn of seasons. Liminal space between summer and fall. I walked into the hospital that night in flip-flops and a t-shirt. Warm air on shaking skin. The next morning the fog had rolled in and raindrops streaked the wall of windows in our recovery room. Just days after we brought her home, the trees had all turned yellow. We sat in the sun and tried to rid her skin of the same hue.

5 days

Two months later and the whisper of winter's arrival has never been so poignant. It serves as punctuation to what we all instinctively know--that life is a constant water wheel of change. With it comes newness, discovery, excitement, coupled with a mourning of sorts for what had been.

Avie fell asleep on her own for the first time last week. It was an experiment. She was clearly tired and I was curious. What would happen if I just let her lay there? I watched from the chair as she drifted in and out--the lucky morning sun drawing lines of light on her cheeks until finally she settled into a three-hour slumber. I joined her. And I won't lie...that extra sleep was insanely delicious. As was the delight that she was able to soothe herself to find it. My to-do list rejoiced after many days of naps in my arms.

And then came the heartbreak. The selfish realization that this milestone means my sweet little baby needs me just a little bit less. That she's growing up just a little bit more. A new season begins.

18 days

Surely this moment will play out many times over the course of our new life. In her peaceful morning nap lived a forecast of her first day of kindergarten, a first sleep-over, the day she gets her driver license, goes to college and, someday, moves away.

When we brought Avie home I was so overwhelmed. She seemed to change with the minute hand of the clock. Maddening. I asked my mom if this was the hardest thing about motherhood--never lingering long enough in any one phase that you could become an 'expert.' She laughed and said no, absolutely not, that the hardest part of being a mother is the letting go.

46 days

Becoming Avie's mom has brought me to the knife's edge of dichotomy. A reminder that each moment we hold both profound joy and pain in the same hand. Anticipation and loss. Ignorance. Wisdom.

Watching my wee one grow into a baby and slowly shed her days of being a newborn is the most exciting thing I've ever witnessed. I thrill in wait for the day she will smile (at me, not just a gas bubble!), laugh, roll and acquire myriad other baby party tricks.

But in that same breath, I don't want her to change. My heart holds tight to these sweet, quiet days of Avie as an infant. And never before has the passage of time been so palpable. The quick slip of a million new moments. Each never to come again.

52 days

Of course, I am also reminded that we must unclench our fists to receive new gifts. But as I do, I find myself angry with the frailty of memory. I am a glutton for this girl. I want to hoard every second. To be able to relive them at will with all senses. On demand, like a live action version of Hulu.

But of course, the mind doesn't work that way and already a shadow of memory remains of those first days together. Perhaps that is a blessing. That absence of past leaves us with just the present. Urges us to be still. Watch. Now. And so, I'm doing my best to oblige.

She smells like milk. Curled up. Ten pounds heavy on my chest. Her little legs so short that her toes tuck near my belly button. Her fingers curled around the fold in my shirt. Sweaty cheek sticks to skin as I tuck my chin and rest my mouth on silky hair. She smacks her lips, breathes quick and drifts to sleep. But every so often she stirs and peeks up at me, as if to ensure with just one more sense that 'yes, ok, mama's still here.'

And here's the thing, my sweet, I always will be. Holding on and letting go. And loving every minute. With all my heart.