If I didn't know better, I'd almost think Microsoft had something to do with it

Flashback: Milo 1.0

Now introducing Milo 3.8
Complete with new hardware and accessories!

Milo has recently discovered that my face and my breast are both part of the same person. During his feeds, he likes to pull away from my breast from time to time to look up at me and make sure I'm still there. When he sees me smiling down at him, his eyes grow huge and his face splits into a wide, toothless jack o'lantern grin. I can see how pleased he is to have his expectations confirmed.

Last night, when I was giving him his bedtime feed, he stopped eating for a moment, looked up at me with an incredibly earnest expression on his face and said, "Awoo."

Then he said it again. "Awoo." And again. "Awoooo."

He stared at me for a long moment, then his eyes slid away from mine and looked out through the bedroom doorway at something in the living room beyond. "Awoo," he said thoughtfully to himself. "Awooo."

His eyes widened as if he'd just been struck by a sudden realization. "Awoo," he said, louder this time. "Awooo! Awoo! Awoo! Awoo!"

I watched him, spellbound, as he very clearly and distinctly said "awoo" at least 30 times in a row. He said it loudly and then he said it softly, slowly and then quickly, rolling it around on his tongue like a wine connoisseur sampling an expensive claret.

I'm pretty sure it was the first time he'd ever made a meaningful sound and was aware that he was the one making it. He consciously repeated it over and over again, experimenting with it, fully aware that he was in complete control of it.

Each "awoo" was pregnant with meaning that only he could understand. He tried several times to convey that meaning to me, but all I could do was smile at him and try to keep my heart from breaking from the sheer stupendousness of it all.

And so it goes... Every day brings another "first" for Milo, and I'm constantly dumbstruck with wonder as I watch him make new discoveries that help him make sense of his environment.

But with each new accomplishment, an older version of Milo is forever lost, and every time I have to say goodbye to one of those obsolete Milos, my heart feels like it's being torn to shreds.

Where's the little newborn who slept in the bassinet in our room and kept us awake with all the zombie-sucking-skull-marrow noises he made in his sleep?

Where's the baby whose tiny head wobbled so dangerously within the car seat's padded head rest? Or the baby we washed in the bathtub on the kitchen floor? Or the tiny floor giraffe who could be completely hidden in the folds of his yellow hooded bath towel?

How about the Milo who needed to be dosed with Ovol after every feed, to help him cope with his gas pains? Or the Milos who wore all those cute summer outfits that were so hysterically huge on him, or the Milo who laughed without making a sound, just crinkled his eyes and opened his mouth as wide as he could and then waited expectantly as if some other entity was responsible for making the laughing noise for him -- where did they go?

Gone, gone, gone, to be replaced by a Milo who can reach for things and roll over on to his side and who no longer needs to be fed in the middle of the night and who squeals with delight when I go into his room in the morning to pick him up from his crib and bring him back to bed with me for his first feed of the day.

Don't get me wrong -- this is a pretty good Milo we've got right now, and I wouldn't trade him for any of those obsolete versions. I know that every time I say goodbye to one of those old Milos, I'm also saying hello to a new one who can do more things and interact with me on a higher level and is better able to make sense of the world around him. I'm thrilled with all the progress he's making, and every morning, I wake up excited to see what new Milo awaits me.

And yet... I can't help but miss those old Milos. Sometimes I wish I could turn back the clock so I could hug and hold their tiny little newborn bodies just one more time.

But I can't, and so I content myself with hugging and holding the Milo I have now. For I know that this little baby will soon be replaced by a bigger baby who's able to walk and talk and say "dada" and "mama," and that baby will be replaced in turn by a little boy who's able to run and jump and talk in full sentences and then that little boy will be supplanted by a big boy who will one day become a man.

It's all too much for me to wrap my head around at times. Faced with such irrefutable evidence of life's fundamental transience, I find there's only one word that comes even close to expressing my overwhelming sense of awe: awoo.

Awoo.

It all makes sense to me now.