Two weeks ago, TwoBoo cut his first teeth.

On Saturday, he began army crawling like he'd spent his first nine months of life in a trench.

Today I came home and sniffled after dropping off The Boy at kindergarten. Then I cried as I pulled out the child safety seat for TwoBoo, who is now big enough to move out of his infant carrier.

I wish I weren't quite such a cliche, but my hard candy shell is broken.

So much of what I love is ephemeral: the changes in babies and small people, paper and other scraps to be used in artwork, photos (that I'm still dying to see) stored in my aunt's basement, family stories and memories.

So as I told myself to suck it up (see how well it's working?), I thought of this article on the first art made with plastics. The artists thought it would be "the new marble," but surprise! the plastic bonds are unstable and now they're melting, stinking, falling apart. And the pieces can't be fixed. All the museums which house them can do is exhibit them as little as possible, and take pictures of them while they're still recognizable.

Guess I should be glad my kids are growing, not degrading, and that they don't stink (irreparably) as they change.