Maybe..

As our littlest guy, Will approaches 18 months I find myself savoring each and every little tidbit of babyhood. The surreptitious grins and games of hide and seek with his mirror reflection, the glee as he enjoys the soft sand on vacation, sliding into it with nary a care. Laying his head on my shoulder as we sit in the shade, humming the Thomas the Tank engine theme over and over again.

His cheerful chirping voice in the morning, round roly poly body marching purposefully, clutching a marker he foraged carefully for, intent on hiding out in a back room doing a little scribbling and some snacking on its colored tip. The powdery soft smell of a clean diaper, curly ringlets framing his face, enjoying his morning eggs with a hearty, emphatic "Mmm!".

The quick staccato "Done! Done!" with bobbing head to be let out of his highchair or help clambering out of his bath.

Done? I'm not sure I'm done yet. Not ready to close that nursery door and pack away the tiny blue rainboots and highchair. As hectic and loud and mind boggling parenting and all that comes with it can be it is beautiful all the same. A beautiful mess. Sometimes it all gets so crazy and absolutely overwhelming that I have no other choice but to sit in the middle of tumbledown couch cushions and broken apart train tracks and graham cracker crumbs and smile.

And something tells me I haven't seen the last of firsts. That hallowed, hushed first moment after birth, the heaving and pushing and struggling and exertion ended...Stillness, calm, and a slick, wet, slippery little body with puckered lips and bleary eyes is laid on your chest. The tiny newcomer's soft eyes lock with your own and at that moment beyond any other you believe; somehow fairy land and fate and the possibility of a Heavenly Force seem tangible, possible, close.

Moments like that are irreplaceable, unexplainable. And the possibility, the chance to have that and all that follows just one more time makes me rethink packing away the onesies.

Maybe just one more...