Memory has a peculiar way of working. One of my earliest recollections is of my mother, pregnant with my little sister, explaining how she would soon enter our lives. It’s a hazy image, much like peering through murky water. I was just 3 years old. My first vivid memory came shortly after, when my sister, Lily, came home from the hospital. I can’t recall her appearance or how it felt to hold her, but I remember my outfit—a blue plaid dress adorned with train buttons—and the thrill of knowing I would get to hold her before the neighborhood kids.
Lily, you’re just a few months old now, so tiny compared to your 3-year-old self. It strikes me as strange that you won’t remember these precious moments we share. Yet, I will carry them like a badge for the rest of my days. The moment we met—the instant connection, the way we melded together in a beautiful balance of need and nurturing, and the sometimes challenging yet rewarding dependency that came with feeding you.
At 4 months, you’re blossoming into your own little person. Amidst all the transformations and milestones, I’ve realized some moments are fleeting, which gives me pause. It’s not that I dread watching you grow; rather, I’m concerned about forgetting the little things that mean so much.
I cherish the way you made a tiny “oh” sound after sneezing, a habit that started almost at birth, and how we always scrambled to capture it on camera but never quite succeeded. It reminds me of a song from my youth that I used to sing in the shower while pregnant: “Every time she sneezes, I believe it’s love.”
Then there were those early days when you would snuggle into the bath with your dad, feeling like a homecoming. I remember the way you would smile at me during feedings, often losing your latch, but we didn’t mind. There was that time you cleverly dealt with a too-fast letdown by squeezing my breast and sucking the milk from your fist. And I can’t forget the countless times you cheekily flashed me the middle finger while nursing.
I still visualize you in that little cradle—the same one where your dad and his brothers once slept decades ago. The nights spent pacing the floor, sometimes collapsing in exhaustion, before we finally decided to bring you to bed with us. Your sleeping face, with its perfect crescent moons of lashes, and the delicate seashell imprint of your ear resting against my skin after you drifted off in my arms.
You surprised us when you finally learned to enjoy diaper changes, all it took was a lively rendition of Billy Joel’s “The Longest Time.” Now, you beam at me with anticipation every time I lay you down on the changing table. Your face lights up when you first spotted your favorite toy, and that was also when we discovered your adorable dimples.
I can’t forget how you would excitedly chatter at the painting of your dad and the cat as we walked by, even if you had just been crying. It was as if you finally understood the joy I felt, and that connection was magical. The way you experienced everything with unfiltered enthusiasm—every sensation, every emotion, all expressed without hesitation. You clasp your hands near your face when you’re excited. You greet strangers with bright smiles and radiate happiness when you wake to see our faces. It’s a bittersweet feeling knowing that one day you may not need me to hold you anymore.
These moments, these fleeting days and weeks, don’t fit neatly into any baby book. They aren’t milestones or checkmarks in a list. Yet, one day when we are both older, they will be the memories I cherish and wish to share with you.
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Summary
In this heartfelt reflection, a mother shares her cherished memories of her daughter, Lily, highlighting the fleeting yet significant moments that define early parenthood. From the joy of first encounters to the bittersweet realization that her daughter will not remember these early days, the narrative captures the essence of love, connection, and the hope to preserve these memories for the future.