It’s funny how you don’t see it coming. I mean, it’s not like they don’t warn you; “the days are long and the years are short.” My sense of time and space is blurry after months and months of our constant togetherness. At some point, the overstimulation of motherhood reaches a threshold and my bandwidth for mentally filing away the special moments begins to wane. That said, I don’t know exactly when it happened…but at some point in the last year and half you both learned to ride bikes, take out the trash, read short chapter books, empty the dishwasher, bake a batch of cookies, write a paragraph, swim to bottom of the deep end and pack your own soccer bags. Neither of you can hang up a wet towel, tie your own shoes, hold a guitar in your skinny little laps, or keep your hands to yourselves. Everything has ketchup on it and hair wash time continues to be a source of loud soap-in-the-eye anxiety. Bedtime takes a long time. There’s reading and snuggling and back rubs and song requests and negotiating and I willllllll myself to hold on each night and not skip any metaphorical pages….because it might just be the last time you ask me to stay and I don’t know how much longer the space behind your ears will smell like vanilla cookies. Already you refuse to hold my hand in a crowd. Instead, I’m learning how to walk behind the two of you or just ever so slightly in front. Both places are terrifying and would that I could stuff you back in the Double Bob Jogger. I don’t even think I’d care if it looks weird, I’m so worn from the worry of keeping everyone safe that I’d strap you in just so I could take a breathe and stare at you like I did when you first arrived eight years ago. Holy shitballs, we had twins.

We still have our daily little ditty. I ask you in a syrup voice if I’ve told you enough how much I love you. How much I like being your mom. How lucky I feel that you are my guys. Sometimes you roll your eyes, sometimes you hug back, sometimes you just sit quiet. No matter. What’s important is that it’s the last thing you hear before sleep finds you. Just in case it’s the last time you want me to tuck you in before becoming a big kid finds you.