It felt like forever when you were a week past your due date, all snuggly and content inside me, patiently waiting to enter this big world while I anxiously waited to hold you.
It felt like forever before you’d begin to talk—my deep, thoughtful one. I didn’t realize then how much of the world you were absorbing and letting sink deep inside. And now your thoughts and questions pour deep from your full heart.
The long nights of babyhood felt like forever, but one morning I woke up feeling abnormally well-rested and realized my last baby hadn’t asked to nurse for the entire night.
That mixture of joy and sadness is something only a mother would know, but it felt like forever.
It felt like forever that I’d be changing diapers, wiping up spills, taking toys and random objects out of the toilet, and baby-proofing the house . . . but now all that is a distant memory.
It felt like forever, but one day you ran to me proudly showing me how you’d dressed yourself from head to foot—backward and mismatched and looking happier than ever.
It felt like forever that I’d be reading Guess How Much I Love You in the rocking chair every single night. Now you prefer to read books on your own when it felt like forever before you’d learn how to read.
It felt like my arms might fall off from all the times you begged me to carry you, but now I can’t remember the last time you asked to be held.
It felt like forever, but one day we had a magical trip to the grocery store. There were no embarrassing meltdowns and you didn’t even ask for anything. We just talked as you held my hand and helped me out.
I sighed as I thought about how quickly that day had come when it felt like forever.
I thought your legs would never be strong enough to push the pedals on your tricycle, but now you’re riding your bike fast enough to make me catch my breath.
It felt like forever, but one day I looked over to see you helping your sibling tie shoelaces, pour milk, and coaching them through hurt feelings. And I remember not long ago trying my best to patiently teach you those same things, wondering if they’d ever stick.
This feels like forever, but one day you won’t be obsessed with superheroes, scooters, or skateboards anymore. You won’t beg to count the stars with me at night or build secret hideouts or laugh at my mom jokes that aren’t funny at all.
One day you won’t beg me to still sometimes snuggle with you at night as you share all your thoughts about this big world I ushered you into one week late.
One day you won’t beg me to play tag with you when I’d rather just sit and watch you run, thinking about how I thought it’d be forever before you learned to walk.
One day I won’t hear, “Look, mom!” all throughout the day as you show me your new drawings and tricks and creations.
Sometimes it feels like forever, but one day you may not ask or want me to be so involved.
So here I am . . .
In this sweet, sacred space between now and what feels like forever.
I want to love you intentionally, savor you fully—just as you are, mother you well, be fully present, actively involved.
Life’s so very fragile and forever’s really just a blink. The moments slip by faster than we ever really think.
Maybe we should live like the future is now, because when does it happen anyhow?
I don’t want to miss this specific moment that used to feel so far away.
Because I’m your mother, and I love you to the moon and back.
Forever and ever.