Mood:  blue

Being a mother is hard, exhausting, and heartbreaking work. I have two daughters—a 2.5-year-old and an 8-month-old. I am simultaneously filled with melancholy and joy over them. They are hitting their developmental milestones—sometimes faster than I would like, and it is wonderful to see. Yet, it is also saddening to see. With each milestone they reach, the further from being babies they become.

Dew, my oldest, speaks in full sentences now. She knows what she likes and she wants it. She is too big for me to carry in my arms, and hates it when I try to carry her like that. She is fiercely independent and strong-willed. She won’t give an inch to me or her father. It seems like it was just last month when she was sitting her high chair, kicking her legs, and happily eating the steamed broccoli I fixed for her dinner. Or perhaps, it was just six weeks ago when she discovered she could run and would shout “Mommy, I running” as she did it. It wasn’t that long ago when Dew had just wisps of hair that I could barely get into a pony tail holder, and now she has a head full of hair that I must fight with her to comb. I get weepy just thinking about it.

My baby, Jo-Jo, is about to turn 9-months-old. Just ten months ago she was in my belly flipping around and kicking me—keeping me up at all times of the night. She’s now crawling and pulling herself up to standing. Walking will surely be close behind. Jo-Jo has already lost her new baby smell, and I miss sorely. No amount of bathing in Johnson’s and Johnson’s Baby bath or slathering on of Baby Magic lotion will make Jo-Jo and Dew smell brand new again.

On the one hand, it is tough being a brand new mom and I don’t want to go back there again with the guilt, the fear, and the strangling post-partum depression. Yet, I don’t want to go forward. I’m not ready to potty train, to teach sharing, or have long discussions about the joys of sleeping in the big girl bed. God forbid if the preteen and teen years rush upon me. Shoot me where I stand, because training bras, maxi pad shopping, and the first of a thousand conversations about sexual health will most definitely kill me. I can’t even think about it.

They are growing up so fast. Sometimes I want to skip work and just stare at them. As much as they might frustrate me, I am going to enjoy every terrible-twos tantrum and one-year-old walking-fall down-get up again adventures while they happen. Sometimes I think about trying to have another baby—naturally (like Jo-Jo) or by adopting (like Dew)—just to get that baby newness back into my house. Then, Jo-Jo will do something like snatch my eyeglasses off my face and try to eat them. That brings back to the present and of sound mind. I convince myself to swallow the sadness of watching my children grow up and just enjoy it while I still can.