Olivia has a pair of Old Navy socks. They're lavender, in a heathered yarn with a darker toe and heel. They make her feet look like those of an elf. The sight of her, crawling about or bouncing in her jumping seat with those tiny purple-clad feet, causes me to nearly dissolve in a rush of love and nostalgia. She's only eight months old but I'm already missing the baby she was. She's growing so fast, becoming a little more independent each day. She stands on her own now, wobbling triumphantly as she lets go of my hand or my knee. When she awakens from a nap, she sits up and rubs her eyes and has a look around before calling or crying to be picked up. She's trying out her new teeth on crackers, and openly marvels at her own ability to bite and chew. She is racing headlong into her future, a place that no longer seems as dreamy and far away as it once did. Watching her, I know that I'll soon have to put the purple socks away with all of her other too-small things. The thought of it nearly makes me cry.

The day we brought her home from the hospital, I carefully stuffed her into a pink smocked dress and matching booties. Bitsy as it was, the dress swam on her. She wore it a few more times, until one bright morning when I could no longer button the back. Into the box it went. A friend brought her a striped romper that looked like an old-fashioned bathing suit from the 1920's. That fit until one day when it suddenly didn't. How could anyone grow so quickly? Next was a pink sleeveless overall splashed with tropical flowers. This outfit served the dual purpose of accentuating her chunky baby arms while making her resemble a miniature retiree from Boca Raton. It was impossible not to kiss her all over when she wore it. Then there were the pink sneakers. Two inches long and almost as wide, she wore them with everything. They're in the box too, along with the white linen dress she wore under her christening gown, her green velvet Christmas outfit, the fruit-suit pajamas, the cheetah-print onesie, the tulle party frock she wore for her first portrait, and the pink t-shirt emblazoned with a pair of dice and the word "Lucky" that we bought for her in New Orleans. Eventually, I'll be able to part with most of her baby clothes. But not everything, not the things that have the power to give me back those moments when she was so very brand new.

For a mother, time isn't an abstract concept; it's a physical force. There is only one experience I can compare it to. Along the North Carolina Outer Banks the current runs swift and deep, and the undertow is a wicked force of nature. One hot August afternoon, I planted my pink umbrella in the sand and waded out into the sea. The waves were big and boisterous, coming fast one after the other. The pull of the undertow was fierce, so I dug ankle deep into the wet sand and braced myself, hoping not to drift too far down the beach. A huge wave slammed over me, and I held on. The force of the water rushing back to sea melted the earth beneath my feet and left me gasping and sputtering. Rubbing the stinging salt water from my eyes, I searched the beach for my pink umbrella and found it, a rueful speck in the distance, hundreds of feet away. Another wave hit. The current was too powerful to fight. Try as I might to stand firm, the undertow swept me further and further away from my place on the sand as the force of the waves left me too battered and breathless to resist. Only by surrendering and letting myself float did I make it back to shore.

Now it's not sand, but the days that melt away beneath me. Holding Olivia's tiny garments in my hands, I'm stunned by how rapidly time is passing. I can't hold back the hours, so I cling to the objects she leaves in her wake. Motherhood is an unimaginably deep sea, with wild and unpredictable currents. I spend a lot of time being tumbled about in the waves. Some days I'm lost. When you don't know how to navigate, it's good to have landmarks. Mine are purple socks.