With Quinlan, I drank in every single nuance of her first year, a mix of sweet nectar, 100 proof scotch, and tears that left me happy and hungover, asking myself "What the hell just happened?" as I scraped myself off the floor and wiped my own drool off my face.
As more first years were celebrated, Drew, then Margot, I built up a tolerance, and the cocktail of those long twelve months became much easier to swallow.
And now, as I watch my last baby, by far my easiest, most pleasant, "let's have another one because this shit is easy" baby, hit one, I realize that it's not just her first year that's coming to an end.
She's gone from rolling to crawling to standingupwalkingrunningwaaaaaiiiiiit. From boob to bottle to eatingeverythinginsightincludingpencilerasersomfg.
Like someone accidentally pushed fast forward and I'm madly pressing every button I can just to get it to stop.
After four kids, I know now that it's all fleeting. I'll remember as much about their first year as they'll remember themselves, except for what I've captured here, in short stories and photos - my attempt to maintain some semblance of a baby book so that when they're older and asking me, I can say "Here. Read this. See, I was funny. And you were a royal pain in the ass."
Because it will be all I have.
Well, that and the uneven boobs.
With Bridget, it's less about endings than I thought it would be, the milestones reached and marked off in this urban myth they call "baby book."
It's about beginnings. A world opening up in front of her.
And me. The reporter, supporter. The giver, mentor. The presenter, editor.