By Ashley Butler 
Today in the car line, I caught myself tearing up.
My 4-year-old was walking in a straight line with the other kids, her little backpack bouncing on her shoulders. She looked so tiny compared to the bigger kids beside her, one of the youngest in her class, and for a moment, my heart ached.
She is growing up faster than I ever thought she would.
When she was a baby, I remember always wishing for the next stage. If she would just sleep through the night, I might feel human again. Then it was, If she could just feed herself, I could actually enjoy my food in peace for once. Later, it became, If she could just talk, I’d finally know what she wants instead of guessing all day.
It is so easy in those early years to wish the hard parts away. You think that once they get a little bigger, once things get a little easier, you’ll finally be able to breathe.
But what no one tells you is that every milestone, every “next stage,” is also another step away from you. And lately, I am realizing it is not just my daughter I see changing.
My son is 8, and I can see him changing right in front of me. His cheeks have lost that roundness that once made him look so little. The sweet mispronunciations that used to make me smile are gone. His body is taller and slimmer now, no longer the squishy baby I once carried everywhere. Even his voice has shifted, just slightly deeper than it used to be, like a preview of the teenager he is becoming.
I hold on to every time he still wants to be close. Every snuggle on the couch. Every “I love you” said without hesitation. Because I know we are entering a new stage. One where he pulls away more often. One where hugs are fewer. One where school drop-off comes with an unspoken rule: Do not embarrass me by saying it too loudly, Mom.
I am so proud of who they are becoming, but part of me longs to hold onto the younger versions of them for just a little longer.
Motherhood is this strange tension. You beg for breaks, for progress, for a little relief from the hard parts. And then, once those stages are behind you, you find yourself wishing you could go back.
Both of them are moving forward in ways that feel too fast for me to catch my breath. I know I will blink and backpacks will turn into car keys, then into dorm rooms, then into wedding vows.
And yet, right now, we are here. My daughter is still tiny in her backpack, still young enough to believe in magic. My son is still small enough to curl up next to me sometimes, even if those moments are already becoming rare.
So I will hold onto what I can. I will take mental snapshots. I will let myself cry in the car line when the sight of her walking in line makes me emotional. I will press pause in my heart even if I cannot press pause in real life.
Because the truth is, motherhood does not give you time to prepare for the changes. They sneak up on you. You do not notice the last time they said a word wrong, or the last time they needed help with their shoes, or the last time they reached for your hand without thinking. The “last time” always passes quietly.
So today, I am holding on. I am holding onto her smallness, his sweetness, the little pieces of childhood that are still left in them.
I know the days ahead will bring new joys. I will get to know new versions of them. I will watch them grow into who they are meant to be. But I also know that part of my heart will always ache for the versions of them I have already had to let go of.
And maybe that is what makes motherhood both beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.
by Susan Lambert 
by Harmony Vuycankiat 
