At 5:30 this morning, as I sat holding Ava after a combined total of about 3 hours of sleep, I felt slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of the morning.  Fridays are, generally, the only morning that I get up “early”, because it’s the only day the kids need to be anywhere.  I don’t like time constraints, and when they are first-thing-in-the-morning time constraints, I get stressed.

I thought, this morning, about how nice it will be when my kids are old enough to get up and get ready without my prodding and oversight; about how, at some point, I will be able to sleep in just a little bit more, because me kids will be more independent.  And it was at that thought that I felt the tears well up in my eyes.

I wouldn’t normally say that I want to hold onto these earliest years of my kids’ childhood for as long as possible.  I like sleep.  I don’t like playing with toys and watching cartoons, or reading the same two books day after day, or reminding for the fiftieth time how to properly do a chore.  But, for all the perks that the eventual independence of my children will bring, I don’t think those perks will ever quite replace the things that will be lost, or changed, with time.

The endless chatter that comes with any time away from me, because they can’t wait to tell me about everything that happened. 

The jostling that happens to try to sit in the spot right next to me. 

The goofy jokes and ready smiles and funny dancing. 

And while I know there is value and promise and destiny in what awaits them as they grow older, I decided this morning that I won’t long for those lost hours of sleep or wish away the childhood activities.  There is something priceless and irreplaceable about these kids in this moment that I wouldn’t trade for anything.  I just hope my sleep-deprived brain won’t forget it all.