As I fought to comfort my baby in a crowded restaurant tonight, my mind kept repeating three words: "Two more years."
You see, my son (the middle child), is now 3.5 years old...and he is much easier. My baby has just turned one, so I have roughly two more years until my life starts to come down from hyperactive mode.
Two more years until...
I can eat slowly.
I can sit down.
I can carry a purse.
I can walk free of a stroller.
I can allow my shoulders to heal from a near-decade of carrying infants.
I can have an uninterrupted conversation with my husband.
I can plan playdates (or anything) without factoring in nap time.
But then as I rocked my little one and felt her chubby cheek against mine, the same words struck sadness in my heart. Two more years. And that's all.
Two precious years of...
incredible milestones
giddy cuteness
the best clothes she'll ever wear
morning jumps in her crib
after-bath snuggles
learning learning learning
this little piggie went to the market
nap times, strollers, and diapers
the unpretentious smile
joyful sounds that sing along
this beautiful baby stage.
The days are hard because she's so dependent. The days are beautiful because she's mine.
I've had five years with my babies, and I have only two more. Then it's on to new challenges and new blessings, but these indescribable baby years will be kept precious in my heart. For tonight may have started with a crying one-year-old girl and an exhausted mama, but it ended with us both laughing as she learned yet another new thing and made sure everyone knew it. It's the joy that remains, energizes, and inspires.
Two more years: I pray they go by slowly.
