I mentioned previously that I’m struggling with the fact that our Emma, our last child, is no longer a tiny babe. It’s bittersweet.
I’m more alert this time around and more cognizant that time is slipping away. I miss these early days, and they’re not even over yet. It’s a funny feeling. Like I’m mourning their passing as they go strolling on by, like drummers in a marching band.
On the mornings that Ben is in preschool I find myself holding her in my arms, long after she has fallen asleep; watching as she smiles and snorts, enjoying some dream that I can only guess at. Later, I bring her into our big bed and she kicks frantically, trying to scooch closer. I kiss her on the nose and she goes cross-eyed as she tries to focus in on my face. And when I tickle her belly she smiles and smiles, and does her little happy gurgle. Oh darling, to be your mother is a joy.
This is how you look at the world, with wide-eyed, happy wonder. Oh to be a child again.