Bittersweet changes

I cleaned out your closets this week - another size of clothing out the door. And with it, one more season of our lives.

Relentless change. It just. Keeps. Coming.

At every step, reminding me that I was(am) not prepared to love beings undergoing such constant evolution. There is so much joy – but also loss. Constant celebration – but also mourning.

The happiness of thinking I will never be pregnant again is weighed down by the thought that I will never again own your bodies as part of mine. The thrilling thought that my days of childbirth are over is tempered by the knowledge that I will never stop missing the day I met you both and the way I slept with you in you arms those first few nights.

I did not see this coming. Do other mothers feel the same?

Obviously, I want you to keep growing and changing. I'm excited to see you grow up and become yourselves. But this Lucy – the one who loves piranhas, sings constantly, and can't seem to keep chalk out of her mouth – I am going to miss HER. Dearly!

I already miss previous versions of you. Like the one who clapped after every accomplishment, the one who said "up-a-high" instead of star, and especially the one who would sit in my arms for longer than 5 seconds. You may not remember her but I do. And she's gone. Really, really gone.

And Henry, I am still crying over every inch you grow. You are the littlest baby I will ever have. Do you really have to grow this fast?! The end of this glorious phase of sitting immobile is out there and coming. I dread the day you decide to push yourself beyond your pudgy little arms' reach. Then I will have 2 self-directed beings under my care and nothing will EVER be the same.

Drool. Smile. Suck on The Hands.

Clearly, you don't understand the significance of what I'm typing about.

So far, every edition of you both has been replaced by one even more wondrous. I may look back with longing but I am still looking forward and excited about the developments you are going through, the milestones you are achieving. There is yet, no sense of real regret or failure.

I fear it is out there.

And scary is the thought that one day I will miss your younger self more than I understand who you are in the moment and more than I long for the next edition. Isn't that the curse of parents and their adolescent children? Somewhere in those years, that line gets crossed?

Oh well, we have a long time before that day and maybe it will never be so.

Today, I am more concerned that I will never again see you in this particular outfit. This once darling and now stained dress that you've worn all summer and now smells like you even just out of the wash. It is convincing evidence that I will never again have a summer with my curly-headed, obsessed with the wizard, two-year-old.

So - I'm pulling it off the pile. I'm squeezing you into it one more time. And tonight, we will find just enough sunlight to stay outside after dinner drawing rainbows and gobbleums (all too soon to be goblins) while Henry watches from his jumper, squawking his delight at our little backyard world.

One more time. Just for me.