I don’t remember when they finally started sleeping through the night.
I don’t remember when I could finally put on a movie and nap while they stayed entertained and wouldn’t move.
I don’t remember when they could grab their own snacks and water from the kitchen.
I don’t remember when these milestones happened, but one day, they did.
Motherhood is strange. For what feels like eternity, you’re wishing for your kids to finally have some independence, and then one day they do. And you’re elated to have a minute to yourself. And so sad that maybe they need you a little less.
I remember when the books I would read to them seemed so long. When they would stretch on for eternity, and I would look for the staple in the binding to know I was halfway through. Those same books now feel so short when my nine-year-old is reading them to me.
I remember when tucking them in felt like a process that would never end. Now, my 13-year-old barely looks up from her book when I kiss her head. These are the things that are supposed to happen, in this exact order.
But I remember the days that I thought they would never come. And now, they’re here.
That’s not to say all my memories are bad or hard. I remember their first trips to Disney (my favorite vacation place), their first words, first steps, and first day of school. I remember thinking it was so amazing that I got to relive so many fun things through their eyes, and I found myself worried about what would happen when the firsts were over.
But here I am, 13 years into motherhood and realizing that firsts and lasts happen every day, in every stage.
Some are hard, and some are magical, but you’d be hard-pressed to put specific dates on most of them (unless you keep meticulous baby books, in which case, yay for you, but that’s not who I am!).
