At the park yesterday, my two-year-old was following around a dad, son, and their dog.
We got to talking. Small talk about our kids.
His were teenagers. Mine three under five.
“Oh, so you’re in the thick of it right now. One day you and your husband will be having coffee at the kitchen table in silence again. There’s an end.”
He meant it as a positive thing.
It won’t always be this busy.
I looked down at my sweet smiling two-year-old, eyes following a bird in flight above.
“But I’m going to miss this,” I answered in a soft quiet voice.
Because gosh, I'm going to miss this.
As much as a cup of hot coffee in silence with my partner is needed, I don’t want it. Because right now, this life, though knee-deep in the overwhelm and exhaustion, is the most time I’ll ever have with my children.
And I’ll never be ready to give that up.
Because when they get older, we won’t be able to spend the entire day together. They’ll be pulled in so many directions: by school, extra-curriculars, and friends. I’ll no longer be the center of their universe but a supporting role in their lives.
I won’t have someone on me all day. Tugging at my pants when I’m cleaning the kitchen. Sitting on my lap when I’m trying to take a bite of a sandwich. Jumping on my back when I least expect it. Wanting nothing more than to be on me, their safe space.
They won’t be calling my name every two minutes at the park: “Mommy, can you push me?” “Mommy, come here!” “Watch me, Mommy!” Instead, I’ll be a bystander, sitting on the bench watching from afar. Then, I’ll only see the park in passing because “only babies play there.”
And I know I’ll get a different you, a you, that will continue to carry my heart. A you I’ll find myself staring at because I can’t believe I created such an amazing human.
But I’m going to miss this you.
And there’s no silent hot cup of coffee with my partner that could ever make me feel different.