imperfectly perfect

Two months. Or eights weeks to be exact.

The amount time that has gone by since my son was born and the tidal wave of responsibility washed over me. Not a bad responsibility, but one that made me say to him, “I got you, kid. Whatever you need. I am there.” 

Love. Yes, I felt love. But, I realized time was life’s Miracle-Gro and my love for him has grown rapidly.  

Speaking of time, they say enjoy the time with my son because it goes by fast—I am finding it to be true. Though, the older he gets means I am getting older too.

So much to do. So much to say. So little time.  

The intention is to remember each moment clearly. Each smile with clarity and each sound with joy. But, sometimes it doesn’t happen that way. 

And all you’re left with is a fleeting moment—just out of focus, just beyond reach, yet leaving an impression none-the-less. 

This is fatherhood at two months or eight weeks to be exact. 

Jaime Valdovino