Out of the Present

Today she rolled over from her back to her belly for the first time. She’s been able to roll herself from belly to back for a few months now, but coax as I might, she never could go the other way. Then it was like she suddenly made up her mind and began doing it, easy as pie. This completes your quest for world domination, I tell her. You can now roll yourself wherever you want to go.

She does this little wriggle-wriggle thing with her hips. Where she picked this up I have no idea; maybe she watches Shakira music videos on the sly. She scootches her hips and shoulders side to side when lying down. Standing in the saucer, she bounces and wriggles, like she’s grooving to some hidden beat. She prefers to do this with one toy clenched in her mouth and both hands busy playing with two other toys. She looks like a D.J., swinging to the beat while spinning tracks with each hand.

She is moving out of the present. She used to just be all the time. Now she’s trying to roll off the changing table before her diaper’s on, crawl her way backwards across the floor. She sees something and wants it. I spend so much of my time out of the present: moving to the next thing, living in the past or future, in ideas or stories. I see her now starting to head places and realize this is part of what it means to be human. To want, to will, to imagine. The change is exciting, enlivening. But I can’t help wanting to hold her in the now just a little longer.