Tadpoles

When I was little, my brothers and I would carry old margarine containers to the creek (read: ditch) across the street from our house in Blaine and collect tadpoles. Tiny little slippery creatures, that we knew would turn into something completely different over night, just like magic. Like proud parents, we would carefully return our catch to the backyard. On tip toes we would teeter our 'Country Crock crib' up on to the interior railing of the high fence in a special corner of our yard. The same corner that housed all our specimen. Including our bug capturing kit, old jars filled with home-made rose perfume steeping in the sun and our family pet cemetery (only home to goldfish and a parakeet). When we felt comfortable with their safety we would head inside and leave them to 'marinate', falling asleep dreaming of tiny frogs. Inevitably, by morning, they were gone. Not a trace of our tiny little tadpoles. Just like magic.

. . .

Peter Grey was born just 11months and 29 days ago. This is really not all that much longer than 'overnight' in 'adult time'. We brought this little tadpole carefully home from the hospital, so small we were scared we'd break him. Fearful of missing that one magical moment when he became more lean, sprouted another tooth, or his face became 'just so' and looked a tiny bit more like his Daddy's. I've placed him carefully up on the counter while I cook, so I wouldn't miss a minute, attended every bath-time, even when I knew Paul had it completely under control. I've slept so light as not to miss the faintest cry, yet every morning when he wakes up he is magically different. Somehow I always miss the transformation. Surely, like the magical tadpoles, I convince myself, the growth of these little babies must happen at night. I reach in to his crib each morning and he's bigger, with more wisdom in his eyes, tufts of new hair, baby feet magically disappeared into the night. Two little boys. From two little tad-poles. Just like childhood magic.

elise