My husband has a fun (sadistic) game in which he tries to make me cry about the children growing up. I tear up easily, so it is not a difficult game for him.
For the most part, I am so happy to see my kids grow up. I’m a more patient mom to school aged kids than toddlers, and I really enjoy my teens. As they grow, I can see the fruit of my labors take shape. I enjoy watching their personalities develop.
And yet, I still miss the chubby faced, grubby hugs and kisses of toddlerhood.
Those endless nights in the rocking chair are gone.
It is pretty rare for anyone to cry as I walk out the door, yet most are still really happy to see me return.
I can usually go grocery shopping alone, though it would be nice to have company.
I don’t change any diapers, and I no longer feel the need to get involved in breastfeeding debates.
Now I worry about how often to send college care packages, and what to pack in them.
I worry about how to make the most of the time my other five have at home with us.
I wonder about how many grandchildren we will be blessed with.
I pray that my sons choose good wives (and that they like me!).
I worry that I will be burnt out when the youngest get to their teen years.
I giggle a little at the things that seemed so important in my early years of parenting. . . breast vs. bottle, sahm vs. daycare, cloth vs. disposable, how many playdates to plan. . . . And now all of that seems so trivial–it mattered, and still matters, but I question whether it deserved so much of my attention?
So, my dear husband linked this song to me on my Facebook AND my Twitter feed this morning (I’m sure he heard it on his iTunes radio as he was making breakfast). I’m glad he thought of me, but he knew it would make me cry. . . . It worked.