When my first daughter was a baby, I didn’t want people to hold her while she slept because I was in school and working and needed her to sleep on her own in her bed. Now she is 7 and she doesn’t want to be close to me when she is sleepy or grumpy or hungry.
When my second daughter was a baby, I wished for her to get big and outgrow the hysterical, uncontrollable screaming and tried to ignore my gut telling me there was something not right. Now she is 5 and I wish she was tiny again so I could get her the help she needed sooner because I missed out on so much of her happy silliness before we knew she was in pain.
When my first son was a baby, I would beg him to stop singing and just go to sleep. Now he is almost 3 and I wish he talked better and wasn’t speech delayed.
Now my second son and last baby is here and I hold him close every chance I get, awake, sleepy or passed out cold. I listen intently to his cries and what he is trying to tell me and trust my mommy instincts. I revel in every coo, acknowledge every giggle and delight in every raspberry. (And take lots of selfies because there’s not usually anyone else around to document these little moments.)
I’ve seen how quickly this time goes and how important it is for both of us. I’ve come to realize these small things make a big difference. I’ve learned that I can’t see the future, all I can do is try my hardest to make today the best it can be because someday I’ll look back and face a bunch of “what ifs” but what I don’t want to see is regrets.
