I remember sitting on the second story porch of our first apartment with my 8-day-old Jameson. It was a delicious September afternoon, with warm sun and a breeze stirring the trees around me. I remember what he was wearing — soft baby jeans and a navy cardigan from my mom — and I remember holding his little bundle of a body so close. He nursed, and I sang to him. And I cried as I sang, my heart hurting with the gift of that moment and the simultaneous knowledge that it was disappearing as quickly as I savored it.

Today I continued to persevere through the semi annual Great Clothing Exchange, and as I stood folding load after load of freshly laundered summer clothes, I pulled a pair of pajama bottoms from the dryer — and paused.

I held them up: skinny waist band, custom made for my thin as a rail son. Long legs, custom hemmed for his bean pole body. I made them last summer out of vintage robot fabric, and his face beamed when he realized the project running through my sewing machine was for him.

Robots. Skinny waist. Thrill over Mama-made clothes.

Those things don’t last forever.

I folded them slowly, not really wanting to put them away. Can we just stay here? Can he be my little boy forever, and can he jump up and down with sheer glee when I make something for him?

He’s seven now, you know. Seven.

Out with Daddy on his birthday-eve. This is his first ever medium cone. Next time you order a medium cone, try smiling like that. I have a hunch that it’ll turn your whole day into one big thankful fest.