The magic of disappearing

There is something magical about babies. Beyond the diapers and the vomit, the sleepless nights and the lack of a social life, the crying and the whining, the mess and the mayhem... beyond all these, there is the magic of wonder. Wonder in the sense of awe, but wonder also in the sense of "I wonder what in the world she is thinking?"

Being home with Solanne every day, all day, I know her better than anyone. This was not true with Maïa, with whom I was home for about 7 months, and then I set off to work while Dad stayed home. So this is all new to me. A few months ago, pre-signs, pre-words, Solanne would look at me in a certain way, and I would know that she needed a drink, or to be picked up, or to go to sleep. It's always been obvious to me but a great mystery to those observing us (especially those who do not have children of their own). It was like we had this cosmic connection, or at least a cosmic joke, just between the two of us. But it was more than that.

Our communication was subtle. Without a word, Solanne could convey a need, a feeling, a mood, and a wish, all at once. And, if I wasn't immediately busy with her sister or some other task, I would happily grant her wish. Her looks were infinitely more complex than a word might ever have conveyed. And because of it, she seemed, even as an older baby, to have a deep wisdom, one which people often associate with newborns.

Formal communication has begun to remove this mysetery, this connection, between the two of us. Now, when she wants to drink, anyone who knows that an index finger to the mouth means "I'm thirsty" can fulfill her wish. Of course, it's less stress on me, and I'm thrilled by the fact that she's started to "verbalise." But it's like she's slowly being taken from me and given to the world.

This, of course, is the plight of parenthood. I love these two children more than anyone in the whole world. I would do anything for them. And for now, they love me more fiercely than anyone else (I share that honour with their Dad). But one day, and I know it will feel like seconds from now, they will grow to love others more. And that's normal. And that's devastating. So I hold onto them a few seconds longer than they would like when they come over for a hug, peek in on them when they sleep, soak up their laughter with every fibre of my soul because I want to keep them mine just a little longer.