There are days when I ache with this truth. I feel it in the marrow of my bones. Clear into my soul. Because I know. These days are fleeting. Nothing lasts forever. Not the sleepless nights of a newborn nor the angst of a pre-teen. Not the sweet milky smile of a baby nor the quick humor or this half-grown child. Our life has become this pile of snapshots and in each photo I can see you growing up. Sometimes it feels so fast I can scarcely breathe. And suddenly I don't want to squander a moment. And I wonder when my daughter will be as tall as me. And when my toddler will no longer curl in my lap and kiss my cheeks. And so tonight I will lay beside you until you are soundly dreaming, just in case I wake tomorrow to discover that you've grown up. I imagine this life with children grown, off to write their own stories and live their own adventures.
And while my mind delights in them finding their wings, my heart weeps at the suggestion. And there is that ache again. Perhaps that ache is love. True, full, indescribable love. The kind of love you whisper into small, sleeping ears because you just need them to know what is unknowable. Yes. Maybe that ache is the feeling of a heart bursting from a fullness that is immeasurable. And perhaps that ache will help us remember what really matters. May it keep us kind. May it keep us playful. May it help us find the words and be the parents that we want to be. Words like "I love you," and "You are enough," and "I am here." May we live this life and guide these children with the goal of having nothing to regret. Not one thing.
And may we remember always that when the sun sets on today our child will be one day older. One day closer to grown. So I will savor the taste of my child's spirit when it rises up. I will skim it off and drink it deeply. So that I never forget this perfectly ordinary day that will be dust and snapshots tomorrow.
And there’s that ache, again. - Rachel Wolf