Like most mothers, I feel time slipping by. I laid down in bed tonight, to nurse my co-sleeping one year old, and thought, my god, they won't be little forever. Obviously, this is not a revelation - we tell ourselves and our under-slept friends this every day, but this evening it struck me as cruelly true. Time slips by. Without our noticing.
My oldest son, Barrett is almost four. Today he beat his five year old friend in a running race and I saw his stride, graceful as his fathers, and the freedom of his young body, and the jubilance of his youth and felt pride. Watching him scale a rock like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, I saw and understood that he will be a powerful athlete someday, as a teenager, as a young man.
My baby, Graham, turned one the day after Christmas. He is toddling around, trying to run, playing rough and wrestling. Lately he hasn't been as willing to eat anything, and he doesn't like showers anymore. He lays his head down on my chest only when he wants a hug. (He is giving kisses now though, so who's complaining?) But he's walking his way out of babyhood frighteningly fast.
We live on the edge of the The Mokelumne River Canyon in Northern California - The Moke - and this is a project that I've wanted to do since my first baby was a baby. Until I became inspired by our lives here in our home, and compelled by how special we are, and how good we have it, I haven't known where to start. So this is it - my letter to my children, a record of our days, our home and our happiness. Love you.