growing pains

Tonight all the girls got a bedding upgrade: Anabelle from bottom bunk to top bunk, Lila from crib to bottom bunk, and Maisey from bottom shoe closet to the crib.

You would think one of them moved away from home or something. For some reason this minor change in logistics is making me feel all sentimental-ish. I keep finding reasons to go upstairs and peek in on each of them. Am I making sure they’re okay? Am I admiring how sweet they are when they sleep? I’m not sure what it is I’m doing exactly.

I spent a while at Maisey’s crib feeling…well,nostalgic I suppose. In just a few years (four to be exact), we have put three girls in that same bed, the bed Braden whittled on our front porch when we were expecting Anabelle. They have slept in the same jammies, on the same bedding, with the same mobile. I looked in there tonight and marveled that we are already on number three. It seems not that long ago that as new parents slightly obsessed and in awe of our new baby, we would put her in bed and then after an hour start to talk about all the cute stuff she did that day. Then we would go look at her. Then we would watch movies of her. Then we’d look at her again. Several times actually. I remember hanging onto the side of the railing wondering & hoping & just being in love. Sadly, those moments haven’t come near as often with the latter two. Not because I feel it any less, obviously. In those early days of parenting, there weren’t spills & blowouts & tantrums & meltdowns & timeouts & 1000 hugs & stories & songs & wrestling & colossal messes & then more stories. It just wasn’t as taxing. Now by the time bedtime comes, we all welcome a little peace. A mental break from the wonder of it all.

It also brings home what every old person in the grocery store tells me, “Enjoy them. They grow up so fast”. Except the other day, one elderly gentlemen actually said something different. He asked me to move my cart so he could reach the coffee filters. But, you know, anybody who has raised kids realizes that this is it. You get one shot at this gig and the effects of your efforts are ginormous, to say the least. Where I am right now is so precious. Just a few short years and my mothering years are over. My kids will find out the truth about me: I’m not hilarious. I sing terribly. My cooking is mediocre at best. I speed often and run lights frequently. Also, that I’m actually not the tickle monster nor do I eat toes. Right now I have three tiny people upstairs convinced that I am awesome. You just can’t beat that.

I think maybe all my trips upstairs to look in on them are to answer my inner feeling, “Can this be happening? Are these kids really growing up this fast?”

I guess so.

But they’re not growing up in the next 6 hours so I’ll let them be for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll still have a four year old who will pull out all 235 dolls and animals and make them beds using all her clothes from her drawers, and it will take me an hour to clean up. I’ll still have a two year old who is so consumed with her baby sister that she will lay on her and squish her at least 12 times an hour. She will tell me she “needs a dink of nolk”, then she will thank me incessantly until I have said “you’re welcome” an adequate number of times. I will still have a sweet baby with big soft cheeks who holds her toes all day and squeals to test out her newfound voice.

I can go to sleep now. I’m excited for tomorrow.