Dad has a picture on his desk of Griffin and I sleeping together in the hospital bed. He looks so new and scrunched and his hat is too big and it makes me strangely nostalgic to look at it. Now, generally speaking, premature nostalgia really irritates me, and these days there’s plenty of premature nostalgia going around — TV movies that film before ink has dried on real-life news stories, packaged retrospectives on tragedies we’ve barely had a chance to grieve — but I digress. The thing is, I look at this photo and I can’t even remember what it was like to be there in that room with him. And he’s not even three months old! When I start thinking about all the things I love about him and realize I’m going to forget them too, I get all weepy (can I still blame post-partum hormones for this?). I just wish I could somehow tuck away these small details until some day two or 13 or 45 years from now when he’s just had a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store or is in the throes of teen angst or has asked to borrow money (again) or for no reason at all. I know there will be wonderful parts all along the way and new things to take the place of what slips away. Still, I already feel a sense of loss knowing I won’t always recall exactly how he smells after a bath, or how soft and warm his tiny feet are when I slip them out of his pajamas in the morning to get him dressed, or the expression that lights up his face when he’s hungry and sees me pull up my shirt. I guess the passage of time, mortality, only hits you when you see it made flesh and saying “ah goo” to you.