Early this evening, as Sam's bedtime edged closer, I started feeling sad. It took me a minute to realize the feeling wasn't new, that I've felt a stab of sadness everyday this week when I've become aware that another day with Sam was coming to an end. I know it sounds crazy, but I've wanted to cry when I realized the time and what it meant. Eden, my best friend, called when it hit me a little while ago. I did start crying when I told her how I felt, that I was sad that another day with Sam was over, then I started laughing because I heard how crazy I sounded. Eden said, "That's morbid. Like one day closer to Sam's death?" I laughed and cried harder. I told her I wasn't totally crazy. She obviously didn't believe me because then she asked, "Do you get like this when he naps, too?"
When he was first born, I remember being grateful that Sam came several weeks early - and healthy. It gave me more time with him, I reasoned. I got to see his eyelashes and eyebrows grow in, watch his perfectly round, floppy little ears turn into the more ear-like things he has now. Best of all, he was still covered in lanugo, that fine, downy hair present only on the tiniest of babies. It was a treat, getting to see him as he was when he should have still been inside. At the time it felt greedy; I got Sam, but I also got more of him than I should have.
Thinking about it now, it's like my early evening sadness is a reminder that I've used those weeks up, that now everything is all Even Steven somehow. Somewhere between two or three weeks early and four and a half months old, everything got all smoothed over. Now we're dealing with "real" time. No extra bonus rounds. This will probably pass, but for now I'm going to hold onto my sadness, as crazy as it is, because I know I can't hold onto Sam. He has to grow and change and become the person he's going to be, which is, of course, what I want. And like Karl said, we've got lots of pictures.