By Whitney Akin 
“Just wait—before you know it, they’ll be all grown up!” I heard this countless times when my three children were little. It came from the stranger in the grocery store checkout line who commented on my little boy’s red hair, or the women who volunteered to keep my daughters in the church nursery. In those days, everything was full: the diaper bag, the laundry bin, my scattered brain, my hands, and my heart. Every time I’d hear that statement, I’d imagine my sweet babies all grown up, driving away to college with a wave out the window, and my heart would tighten a little. I would resolve to savor every day, no matter how hard.
The funny thing is, I was so caught up in holding on to their toothless smiles and chubby rolls that I never really envisioned the years between babies and goodbyes.
Those years—the middle years—aren’t always talked about. Maybe because they are the years of routine: homework and sports practices, weeknight dinners and Friday movie nights, Halloween costumes and birthday parties with a few friends. They are the years of everyone under one roof and sleeping through the night. They are the years of family traditions repeated every Christmas, no matter how old they get. They are the years that run together until you see a picture on your phone and you can’t believe how big they’ve gotten. No one’s tracking developmental milestones or planning out their future. The middle years are comfortable. Everyone is together. Every week looks a lot like the last. Family life is ordinary in the very best way.
There’s a simple wonder to the middle years of motherhood. There are no more baby toys in the house, the crib is in the attic, and the clothes have been donated. I thought the ending of that season would wreck me, but it turns out, the babies haven’t gone, they’ve grown.
The changing table has transformed into a display shelf for his dinosaur collection, the baby dolls have been moved to make room for her skincare routine and makeup, and the board books have been traded for chapter books she can read late into the night. And I get to have a front row seat to watch who they are becoming. They are smart and capable, curious and kind, silly and creative, and unexpectedly funny and fun to be around.
I still see her round little 2-year-old face in the corners of her eyes when she smiles. I still brush my hand across his cheek the way I did when he napped in my arms. But when I watch them practice a new language, play an instrument, or draw an actually-impressive picture, I’m struck by the deep joy of watching my babies grow into fantastic people.
These years—the middle years—aren’t always talked about, but maybe they should be. They are the years for investing a little every single day. They are the years for answering their questions, teaching them lessons, and letting them make mistakes while it’s still safe. They are the years for forming family values that will last beyond our four walls, for shaping identity with love and intention, and for giving them a safe place to land, always.
All the moms were right—before I know it they’ll be all grown up…but they aren’t all grown up today. And so I’ll ask them to pick out their clothes for school, make their lunches, listen to them read, fix dinner, and snuggle up on the couch for a family show just like I did yesterday, because these middle years matter.
by Lori E. Angiel 
by Mary Ann Blair 
by Lori Jones 
