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It's early morning.
Just a Monday.
I lie half awake, luxuriating in the final moments of quiet that I'll have for the day, when I suddenly overhear my 3 year old alarm clock thump out of his bed, and dart down the hallway towards my room.
Already?
My door flings open, and I purposefully keep my eyes closed just to make sure that he knows I'm still "asleep". I hear him dash across the floor, and the bed shakes as he haphazardly crawls up to snuggle next to me.
6:40 am cuddles have been the norm since he's been able to climb out of his big boy bed.
Thankfully today, it's not 3:40 am.
Before I even have the chance to tell him "Mommy's still sleeping buddy" he's restlessly clutching my face, kissing my cheek and excitedly saying "it's morrninng mom!" in that permanently loud, yet innocent little boy inflection of his.
He's yet to fully grasp the concept of an "inside voice", if such a thing even exists when you're a 3 year old boy.
Above his familiar commotion, I make out the faint back and forth babbling coming from the twins nursery down the hall.
Lately when they wake in the morning, they're comforted by the very sight of each other, and will sit for a while peeking through the crib rails while exchanging their chatty twin banter. A very welcomed variation from exhausted months past, when I was often awakened at a much earlier hour, by the ear-splitting melodies of their hunger driven wails.
Sleepily, I roll myself out of bed and gradually make my way down the hall to their room, right as my big boy flies past me to extend his greetings for the day.
A favorite pastime of his, no doubt.
Walking in, their cheerful eyes meet with mine and I notice that their morning expectations of my presence is different lately, suggesting more of a joyful amusement, than that of a necessity or requirement.
Such a subtle variance, yet today it's oddly palpable.
They squeal up at me and clutch the crib rails as they pull to stand, resembling the big boys that they're too rapidly becoming, their wide eyes beaming at the pair of us.
And although nearly imperceptible, in this curious moment my heart can practically see the slight chubbiness of their once cherubic faces transform from baby to toddler. Their bowed out, chunky baby legs becoming longer and leaner, and their voices somehow sounding slightly older.
Cheerfully babbling my name now, "Mammama" they're reaching for me, and as I lean over to grab one, feeling his strong little arms hugging tight so he doesn't fall off when i go to scoop up his brother...
It hits me.
Like a bullet to the chest.
In almost one week my babies will be turning one, which absurdly promises that in about seven short days, they'll no longer be considered babies.
One week?
As I hesitantly stand before such a perplexity, all I can do is contemplate the fact that this mind numbingly hard and inexplicably magical chapter in my life, of growing and birthing little miracles, and mothering newborns, and babies, is somehow coming to a close.
This magnificent phase that began the instant that I learned I was pregnant with my first, that opened up to an eminant precipice on which I nervously stood, staring into the unknown abyss that is new motherhood, that so often seemed dauntless and never ending, is actually ending now and I can never have it back.
No more middle of the night, helpless cries for mommy because they're starving and they need me. My very last taste of what it feels like to have tiny creatures who depend solely and completely on me for their very existence.
No more home from the hospital excitement and tears, and newborn sounds and smells, and tiny hands that fit perfectly inside of mine.
All of it now, forever but a memory.
How did this happen?
Or better yet...when?
Did I over count, or skip a month somehow?
No. Of course I didn't.
I've been too busy counting down the months until life would be easier again. Easier for my firstborn, easier for the family as a whole.
Easier for me.
I've been beyond preoccupied with pushing forward to reach every new milestone, celebrating each tough phase that passes, considering that each passing one gradually makes life feel more manageable, and similar to how it once did.
And, unless there is some kind of miracle unplanned surprise package in store down the road, I only have one week left (at least in my mind) that I will be the mother of babies.
I suppose I've been cognizant that their first birthday was looming, as I've been fantasizing about that very notion for the past 11 months, but on this particular morning my heart is having a difficult time grasping the weight of such a concept.
In short, It appears that my sappy and sentimental thoughts on the matter have drop kicked the $#it out of my poor old heart, right to the point that it causes my aching chest to give rise to pitiful, nostalgic sentiments that well up through my throat, and fall from my eyelids onto the damn floor.
Just a Monday.
I lie half awake, luxuriating in the final moments of quiet that I'll have for the day, when I suddenly overhear my 3 year old alarm clock thump out of his bed, and dart down the hallway towards my room.
Already?
My door flings open, and I purposefully keep my eyes closed just to make sure that he knows I'm still "asleep". I hear him dash across the floor, and the bed shakes as he haphazardly crawls up to snuggle next to me.
6:40 am cuddles have been the norm since he's been able to climb out of his big boy bed.
Thankfully today, it's not 3:40 am.
Before I even have the chance to tell him "Mommy's still sleeping buddy" he's restlessly clutching my face, kissing my cheek and excitedly saying "it's morrninng mom!" in that permanently loud, yet innocent little boy inflection of his.
He's yet to fully grasp the concept of an "inside voice", if such a thing even exists when you're a 3 year old boy.
Above his familiar commotion, I make out the faint back and forth babbling coming from the twins nursery down the hall.
Lately when they wake in the morning, they're comforted by the very sight of each other, and will sit for a while peeking through the crib rails while exchanging their chatty twin banter. A very welcomed variation from exhausted months past, when I was often awakened at a much earlier hour, by the ear-splitting melodies of their hunger driven wails.
Sleepily, I roll myself out of bed and gradually make my way down the hall to their room, right as my big boy flies past me to extend his greetings for the day.
A favorite pastime of his, no doubt.
Walking in, their cheerful eyes meet with mine and I notice that their morning expectations of my presence is different lately, suggesting more of a joyful amusement, than that of a necessity or requirement.
Such a subtle variance, yet today it's oddly palpable.
They squeal up at me and clutch the crib rails as they pull to stand, resembling the big boys that they're too rapidly becoming, their wide eyes beaming at the pair of us.
And although nearly imperceptible, in this curious moment my heart can practically see the slight chubbiness of their once cherubic faces transform from baby to toddler. Their bowed out, chunky baby legs becoming longer and leaner, and their voices somehow sounding slightly older.
Cheerfully babbling my name now, "Mammama" they're reaching for me, and as I lean over to grab one, feeling his strong little arms hugging tight so he doesn't fall off when i go to scoop up his brother...
It hits me.
Like a bullet to the chest.
In almost one week my babies will be turning one, which absurdly promises that in about seven short days, they'll no longer be considered babies.
One week?
As I hesitantly stand before such a perplexity, all I can do is contemplate the fact that this mind numbingly hard and inexplicably magical chapter in my life, of growing and birthing little miracles, and mothering newborns, and babies, is somehow coming to a close.
This magnificent phase that began the instant that I learned I was pregnant with my first, that opened up to an eminant precipice on which I nervously stood, staring into the unknown abyss that is new motherhood, that so often seemed dauntless and never ending, is actually ending now and I can never have it back.
No more middle of the night, helpless cries for mommy because they're starving and they need me. My very last taste of what it feels like to have tiny creatures who depend solely and completely on me for their very existence.
No more home from the hospital excitement and tears, and newborn sounds and smells, and tiny hands that fit perfectly inside of mine.
All of it now, forever but a memory.
How did this happen?
Or better yet...when?
Did I over count, or skip a month somehow?
No. Of course I didn't.
I've been too busy counting down the months until life would be easier again. Easier for my firstborn, easier for the family as a whole.
Easier for me.
I've been beyond preoccupied with pushing forward to reach every new milestone, celebrating each tough phase that passes, considering that each passing one gradually makes life feel more manageable, and similar to how it once did.
And, unless there is some kind of miracle unplanned surprise package in store down the road, I only have one week left (at least in my mind) that I will be the mother of babies.
I suppose I've been cognizant that their first birthday was looming, as I've been fantasizing about that very notion for the past 11 months, but on this particular morning my heart is having a difficult time grasping the weight of such a concept.
In short, It appears that my sappy and sentimental thoughts on the matter have drop kicked the $#it out of my poor old heart, right to the point that it causes my aching chest to give rise to pitiful, nostalgic sentiments that well up through my throat, and fall from my eyelids onto the damn floor.
Twenty-two seconds ago, they were rolling me out of the operating room with two perfect angels cradled under my arms, and now here they are standing on their own, babbling my name, smiling and comprehending every part of what I mean when I smile back and say "Good morning angel pies, are you ready for breakfast?"
To announce that all of this goes by "too fast" would be the understatement of the century.
Every parent or grandparent that I've ever spoken with, has simply acknowledged the very same thing. It's the most prevalent observation squandering their boggled minds, at any given moment.
We are constantly reminded to "cherish every moment" because it "goes too fast", but that turns out to be quite difficult for us.
In fact, living in the moment is one of the hardest things about motherhood.
Often times, instead of keeping track of it all by celebrating the wonderful milestones and enjoying the moments at hand, we instead count it by mourning the loss of what once was so innocent and sweet.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
It's pointless, but uncontrollable.
Futile, but insuppressible.
It's as though once you become a mother, your capricious heart transforms into a pining, nostalgic memory seeker. And possibly, the rationale behind such a perplexity as being unable to focus on the now, is because all of life's "challenges" reside there.
All of the difficulties, the crying, the tantrums, the sleep deprivation, the worrying, the never-ending parenting learning curve and all of those exciting things, of course can only be played out in the here and now.
And whether big or small, our minds tend to wander away during hardships, which is likely contributing to the rapid pace at which time flies.
But the most puzzling part of it all, is that even though I'm deeply saddened by the rapid passage of time, I've spent a great deal of this crazy phase inadvertently wishing in the moment, that time would speed up.
So in essence, I've successfully ambushed the &@$% out of myself.
I'm guilty of it; we all are. When times are hard, our minds project.
Half the time that my 3 year old speaks to me, I have to ask him to repeat himself because I'm preoccupied with his brothers, and thinking of other things.
In brief, the disturbing enigma that we face is this: this phase...this beginning chapter of motherhood, happens to be the shortest, but feels the longest because it is the hardest.
Well, at least until our children become teenagers anyways.
Thankfully though, what fortuitousness I've come to find is that there is comfort hiding here, if you'll only choose to seek it.
Even though I may shed nostalgic tears and grieve all the lost moments that have flown past me, I realize that I still wouldn't return back even if given the extraordinary opportunity. Because I'd miss everything about who my boys are becoming today.
Life is fragile and fleeting, we can lose all of it at any given moment.
Which factually, makes today and all its hardships.... quite brilliant.
In these emotionally saturated moments, when I am stripped down to nothing but unclouded, raw emotion, is actually when I feel the most alive as a mother.
And ironically, this is also when I find myself fully present.
It is a bona fide right of passage that we all face, and instead of seeing it as a burden, I will choose to see it as a blessing in disguise.
It is here that my mind wraps around what is authentically significant, and I am able to ultimately focus on what is important in my life, such as the elusive present moment where I'm still able to hold both of my babies at the same time. One sweet baby under each arm.
Here is where I am able to create simple everyday memories with my beautiful boys.
Some day soon, all 3 of these little guys will no longer desire the security of my lap or my arms, but instead will require the familiar reassurance of my affirming words and wisdom.
And though their tiny body's will grow, and their expressions and questions will continue to change, their hearts will remain the same.
And so will mine.
Truly, a mothers heart has the uncanny ability to transform all of the ugly and tough times that we face with our children, and somehow filter them out until they appear good.
Because love bears all things, covers all things, believes all things, and endures all things (that one's not mine, I came across it in this incredibly long and anciently awesome book that I have).
But out of all my struggles in this brief and challenging chapter of life, when I look back...all I am left with are fond and warm-hearted memories.
So what I'd like to say to life and my littles today is this:
Bring on the challenges, because in this majestic story, the chapters keep getting better and better.
And although a multitude of moments will be hard, and the time will move too fast, the memories that follow will be magnificently easy.
To announce that all of this goes by "too fast" would be the understatement of the century.
Every parent or grandparent that I've ever spoken with, has simply acknowledged the very same thing. It's the most prevalent observation squandering their boggled minds, at any given moment.
We are constantly reminded to "cherish every moment" because it "goes too fast", but that turns out to be quite difficult for us.
In fact, living in the moment is one of the hardest things about motherhood.
Often times, instead of keeping track of it all by celebrating the wonderful milestones and enjoying the moments at hand, we instead count it by mourning the loss of what once was so innocent and sweet.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
It's pointless, but uncontrollable.
Futile, but insuppressible.
It's as though once you become a mother, your capricious heart transforms into a pining, nostalgic memory seeker. And possibly, the rationale behind such a perplexity as being unable to focus on the now, is because all of life's "challenges" reside there.
All of the difficulties, the crying, the tantrums, the sleep deprivation, the worrying, the never-ending parenting learning curve and all of those exciting things, of course can only be played out in the here and now.
And whether big or small, our minds tend to wander away during hardships, which is likely contributing to the rapid pace at which time flies.
But the most puzzling part of it all, is that even though I'm deeply saddened by the rapid passage of time, I've spent a great deal of this crazy phase inadvertently wishing in the moment, that time would speed up.
So in essence, I've successfully ambushed the &@$% out of myself.
I'm guilty of it; we all are. When times are hard, our minds project.
Half the time that my 3 year old speaks to me, I have to ask him to repeat himself because I'm preoccupied with his brothers, and thinking of other things.
In brief, the disturbing enigma that we face is this: this phase...this beginning chapter of motherhood, happens to be the shortest, but feels the longest because it is the hardest.
Well, at least until our children become teenagers anyways.
Thankfully though, what fortuitousness I've come to find is that there is comfort hiding here, if you'll only choose to seek it.
Even though I may shed nostalgic tears and grieve all the lost moments that have flown past me, I realize that I still wouldn't return back even if given the extraordinary opportunity. Because I'd miss everything about who my boys are becoming today.
Life is fragile and fleeting, we can lose all of it at any given moment.
Which factually, makes today and all its hardships.... quite brilliant.
In these emotionally saturated moments, when I am stripped down to nothing but unclouded, raw emotion, is actually when I feel the most alive as a mother.
And ironically, this is also when I find myself fully present.
It is a bona fide right of passage that we all face, and instead of seeing it as a burden, I will choose to see it as a blessing in disguise.
It is here that my mind wraps around what is authentically significant, and I am able to ultimately focus on what is important in my life, such as the elusive present moment where I'm still able to hold both of my babies at the same time. One sweet baby under each arm.
Here is where I am able to create simple everyday memories with my beautiful boys.
Some day soon, all 3 of these little guys will no longer desire the security of my lap or my arms, but instead will require the familiar reassurance of my affirming words and wisdom.
And though their tiny body's will grow, and their expressions and questions will continue to change, their hearts will remain the same.
And so will mine.
Truly, a mothers heart has the uncanny ability to transform all of the ugly and tough times that we face with our children, and somehow filter them out until they appear good.
Because love bears all things, covers all things, believes all things, and endures all things (that one's not mine, I came across it in this incredibly long and anciently awesome book that I have).
But out of all my struggles in this brief and challenging chapter of life, when I look back...all I am left with are fond and warm-hearted memories.
So what I'd like to say to life and my littles today is this:
Bring on the challenges, because in this majestic story, the chapters keep getting better and better.
And although a multitude of moments will be hard, and the time will move too fast, the memories that follow will be magnificently easy.
mommin' ain't easy.
you're doing better than you think.
