Each day when my home is a little extra quiet, I find myself walking the same path through our Christmas filled hallways. I stop for a few seconds when my Christmas music is drowned out, in order to hear the location of where they're stationed.
I find my son sitting on the playroom floor with a pile of Batman guys surrounding his little body. He doesn't see me in the doorway. He usually doesn't. His little mind is off somewhere in Gotham City, protecting it from evil villians. I linger in the doorway a little longer than usual, as I notice how much bigger my baby boy is getting. His words are clearer and his mannerisms make me feel as if he's his sister's age. I cannot believe he'll be 4 years old in just a few short weeks... When I close my eyes, the image of his sister at his age is becoming blurry with time.
My daughter is somewhere in our home, each spot varies, but the idea is always the same. I find her with notebook paper sprawled out in front of her and a freshly sharpened pencil in her hand. Scrape pieces of paper line the floor beneath her feet. And she's deep in thought, writing one of her many stories that she'll be beyond eager to show me when it's finished.
And I'll drop whatever I'm doing in excitement to hear it...
These days are so much different than my days just a few short months ago. They're growing quicker than my mind can comprehend. Instead of being consumed with the words "mommy I need" all day long. I find the air is quieter and vacant. I find myself seeking them out more than they find me. And even when they're being loud, it's not directed towards me. I just happen to be the moving structure that goes about, as they roller skate, play big wheel tag, or play hide and go seek.
How quickly we fall into our routines. I've grown so accustom to this life with them. Their familiar everyday noises and sounds. Even the loudness has a comforting tone to it. And when they go about their day, I still see traces of my babies in them. Like when they're tired and want all the cuddles life has to offer. Or when my so is half asleep and holds tightly onto my hands and says, "never leave me mama." And when my daughter wants to hear the same nursery rhyme melody that I used to sing to her as I rocked her to sleep when she was younger. Those are the moments that keep me sane when I feel like they're slipping away towards adulthood.
This is the part of life where I want to forever grab them and pull them backwards to me. To keep them in my wrap, so they're carried close to my heart and protected. But instead, I drop my hands firmly at my side and watch their freedom unfold. And being grateful for the opportunity to see their ability to grow and navigate life outside of mama.
But, in these little quiet moments throughout my day, I'll still stand in their doorways, motionless, as I watch them look so peaceful and young. And linger longer and longer until I eventually get caught and told I'm weird (probably by my daughter).
And, accept that life is always changing and moving forward. And allowing them the room to continue in biology's path, is the best mothering gift I can give them. And use those quiet moments to feed my yearning for them to be my babies forever...
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