The other night, instead of tucking the kids into bed like good parents should, we piled them up into the car and sped towards Dairy Queen for a late-night treat of ice cream. (It’s summer, right?)
As we drove, I turned to Ben and said, in almost a reverent tone, “Isn’t it weird to think that we won’t always be the parents of little kids? It won’t be like this forever…”
Honestly, the thought is so strange to me. With Jake about to turn one (How did that happen? Didn’t I, like, just write this post about dragging my 200-pound body up hills in 100 degree heat in a desperate attempt to dislodge him from my body?) this time passing so quickly with our kids has been on my mind a lot.
I’ve just come to think of myself as a mom to little people. A baby always on my hip. Diaper bag stocked full of well, diapers, of course, and changes of clothes, just in case, and snacks, endless amounts of snacks.
It’s been my life for the past six years, non-stop, and although I definitely have my share of struggles being the primary stay-at-home parent to three kids five and under, I really do love having little kids and babies around. It’s so much fun and there is absolutely nothing in the world that can compare to their sweet innocence, scribbled artwork, or a little hand slipping in mine unannounced with a whispered, “I love you, Mom.”
As Ben describes it, we are both slightly dreading the growing-up phase, because with each year passing and every step closer to teenagedom, there are becoming decidedly more not ours. Little kids? Totally ours, in our control (for the most part), their lives = our life. But older kids? And (horror) teens? Definitely not the same.
I realize, what’s even more strange is to think that I couldn’t imagine my life with a baby in the first place.
And now I can’t imagine my life without one.
P.S. Don’t tell me it’s time to have another baby. Because it’s not. Not yet, anyways.
P.P.S In related news, survey says that having three kids is the hardest, most stressful thing ever. Welcome to my world.