Help me, Jesus.
It is the swinging back and forth of a pendulum between staring at the most precious thing on God’s planet and losing your mind.
It is an aching in your heart that they are at your breast no more, but loving that they are, in fact, no longer at your breast.
It is the giggles behind their back as they tell you something of great importance.
It is the perfection of that tiny voice that can never be replicated, as much as you wish it could be.
It is the sound of little feet coming full blast your way, tackling you to the floor. It is the fearful sound of silence, never knowing what you will find when you find the source of quiet.
It is the cleaning of messes for the 37th time before lunch and the knowledge that the messes will one day be gone.
It is being on your fourth cup of coffee before realizing you are starving.
It is potty training. Enough said.
It is wild, and it is energy never-ending.
It is excitement and meltdowns and naps and snacks (and more snacks)—over and over and over until one day they are in kindergarten.
It is the joy in the carrying of a body still tiny enough to hold with ease, knowing that soon enough they will be as tall as you. It is trying to imprint into your soul what holding that little, 25-pound body feels like, their weight a part of you.
It is falling into bed, eyes barely open, but your heart exploding with thankfulness.
It is exhaustion and laughter. It is patience and failing. It is emotions. Big, big emotions. Yours and theirs.
It is the learning that with each child, their growing brings you life.
It is beautiful and joyful and scary.
It is complete and total innocence in life that can never be recaptured, and it is a gift to be given this stage.
In God’s great wisdom, He knew this stage was needed. He knew this would be a sweet spot we would want to remember forever, and that it would also be a spot that would humble us. He knew it would teach us love and joy and patience.
So, don’t grow up just yet, sweet pea. Stay here with me for a little while longer. Stretch out toddlerhood until I’m forced to acknowledge its passing.