My daughter turned 7 over the weekend and, I gotta tell ya—as a mother—seeing your babies grow up is the cruelest blessing.
On the one hand you love it. You love seeing them become these beautifully talented, industrious, and fantastic little people. But, on the other hand, you know that with each birthday comes the realization that your time with them is coming quickly to a close. There will soon be a day when they don’t need/want you around as much; when the kisses that come before bed, and in the morning before school, don’t come as easily; when the early mornings of feet in your back—because one or the other, or both have crawled into your bed just to snuggle—won’t be a problem because you’ll be lucky if you can coax them to share a meal with you, much less anything else.
It’s something I think about daily—most of the time holding back a few tears—and flipping through the hundreds of photos of them, from swaddled newborns to now, only serve as painful reminders of just how quickly time can fly.
My “babies” are 7 and 9—hardly college-ready and off into the great wide open yet—but they already feel far too close to moving day for me, as is, and that has made it hard, from time to time, to truly embrace the here and now because I am far too busy dwelling over the years I can’t get back; silly, I know, but I’m just being honest.
Again, this is all mom-speak, from the perspective of a woman who has been infinitely blessed to stay at home and raise her children, to this point. But, it’s something that weighs on me often enough that I often think of them when I start my workouts. I want them to be able to enjoy me as their mother for as long as possible, and I certainly want the opportunity to see them become the young man and woman that I sincerely hope I’m raising them to be.
They are my world and, at least for now, I am theirs. And I consider that a privilege.