Afternoons spent in the park with Lorenzo, staring up at Georgia's blue sky. The sun is warm on our bare shoulders and legs as we pull the remaining liquid from our cans of beer.

Luna sleeps in her stroller, releasing the occasional coo (the best sound in the world) and Rowdy stretches his body on the cool grass next to us. This time is so special. And like any special time, I'm aware of its passage, slipping like sand through my fingers.

I want more than anything to soak in these moments:

The awe of our newborn daughter, the joy that she’s finally here with us, the disbelief of how life changes so damn quickly and how we somehow adapt just as quickly.

The strangeness of the world right now in the height of COVID and all the pain and uncertainty it's brought, but also the grace and kindness and connection that keep popping up.

The simultaneous challenge and ease of spending my days nursing and changing diapers and walking outside and texting friends and napping and hanging out with my little family. Of feeling like I'm doing so much but also nothing at all.

The simultaneous reluctance and eagerness of going back to the way things were - work, social engagements, plans, goals, expectations.

The strange pressure of trying to be present and savor this time as much as possible, of wanting to soak in every moment but also veg out in front of the TV and mindlessly scroll through social media.

I don’t want to think about time anymore. I just want to drink my beer and look at the blue sky. But the can is empty now, and the day is fading into dusk.