How do you chronicle the movement of water in a rushing river?

I want to capture it all, but this child of mine will not stop, will not face the camera, will not smile for the stretch of time between focus and flash. I would have to video tape the entire day, every day, and run it back at 1/10th speed to fully appreciate the nuanced changes he undergoes daily, hourly. Each day he charges in to the morning, already leaving me behind in my clumsy efforts to match his energy and enthusiasm.  How is it that just a moment ago he was a bobble-headed baby, mouthing mashed food and sliming his baldy head with his pudgy, banana-covered fingers?
How did he slip from "dat" and "cah" to a handful of words that only I could hear, to lists and lists of words, to phrases and sentences, and (now) conveying complex abstract thoughts and his own evolving understanding of a world with past, present and future?
I want so badly to capture it all, but I feel like there is never a moment between in which I can reflect on it.  I spend my days chasing after him and my nights worrying about it all going too quickly, worrying about not capturing enough pictures or words. 
This is what seasoned parents tell you:  take lots of pictures, write it all down.  But how, when and where?
Out of nowhere, he has become a big boy (No more nursing!  After dropping all but the bed time feeding, where we remained stalled for weeks, our babysitter finally convinced me there was no other way than to just stop, so I did-- that night.)
As ever, he is implacable and impatient, and does not tolerate pandering or patronizing.  He rarely has tantrums (I could count them on one hand) but when he does he seems unconvinced of his own histrionics, and afterwards somewhat sheepish.
This move has changed us all...
For Stinky it has been hardest, but her memory (or lack thereof) does not permit her to compare what she has gained, only what she has lost: friends and wine bars, professional regard and a community with common interests and goals.
For me, it has been isolating-- but I have always been isolated to a degree, but mostly because I am socially awkward and sometimes a bit agoraphobic by choice.  This isolation is more physical and real in the sense I can go weeks only seeing 2 or 3 people other than Stinky and The Boy. Not having a real job-- I am freelancing in the meager time I have between dropping The Boy off and picking him up at babysitting-- takes my normal anti-social tendencies up a notch.
For The Boy, the changes have been theoretical, since he has barely been walking for a two weeks when we left Brooklyn, and the distance between infant and toddler is a vast, unbreechable gulf.
But, in contrast to our life in Brooklyn, we live in a house that gets sunshine from multiple windows, we have a good sized yard where we are trying to grow things, and there are a number of parks near to us that even on "crowded days" do not come close to harboring the hoardes of people, softball teams, barbecue accoutrements, dogs and kids on various wheeled playthings that made Prospect Park in Brooklyn a no-go on weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day. We have nearby hikes up hills and mountains and around lakes and reservoirs, there are farms and petting zoos, libraries and museums geared toward children, and an endless roster of child-friendly events and venues that we've only begun to explore.
The Boy doesn't remember his infant life in Brooklyn, but when we return, I can see that his first summer there has left its mark on his neural wiring. He knows where the water park is (complete with sharp, irregular stones that define the spray area-- genius!) and what a Mr. Softee truck looks and sounds like. He delights in stalking pigeons on the sidewalk and always remarks on the sheer number of cars and people, which to him probably signifies something important happening, like a parade or a fair, not just an average Saturday where people swarm the streets to escape their cramped apartments and get a little sunshine after a week of dawn-to-dusk work under fluorescent lights.
In short: the move has been a net loss for Stinky, a net wash for me, and a net gain for The Boy. Which is kind of how life tends to shake out after a child, I think. Right now I want to focus on staying present, on keeping up with what we have.  We can't move back.  We can only go forward.
To that end: an anecdote from Barbados.  As noted, The Boy does not count patience as a high virtue, and the time between "I want" and the manifestation of the desire to him is sheer torture.  One morning in Barbados, he declared he wanted to go to the beach that very instant.  I told him he had to put on  his shoes, to which is responded, "No, I want my COSTUME!"... It was only several days later that I realized in a similar circumstance that he was referring to his bear costume that he wore for Halloween, because he wanted to go barefoot. It makes me wonder how much I don't get.