The Ache of It

In hindsight, I think I subconsciously imagined having a child to mean that you would, essentially, have a child forever. That is, an infant, a toddler -- perhaps a child as old as five -- would live in my house with me always.

He or she most definitely would not continue to age alongside me beyond kindergarten, only to one day reach adulthood and forge a life apart from mine.

He or she would never be too big or too proud to cuddle against me before drifting off to sleep amidst sweet whispers of, "I love you, Mommy."

Ridiculous as it may sound, it truly only just recently occurred to me that my children won't be children for very long. Cece is already a kindergartener; Nico's hands & feet no longer have that silky, thin-skinned look of infancy. As much as I implore Cece to stop, she and her little brother keep on growing, day after day.

Normally when putting the kids to bed each night, I feel a little anxious for them to drift off to sleep so I can go back downstairs, get a few dishes washed, have a little quiet time to myself before I head back upstairs to bed.

But tonight, as Cece and I lay side-by-side in her princess bed, I hesitated to leave her.

I was consumed with the ever-looming future, as though I could peer through the curtain of time to the day when an all-grown-up Cece leaves our house, when I will be both comforted and heartbroken by the memory of this night, her arm thrown over me, mine over her, our cheeks nuzzling, breath falling into unison.

And I, this perfectly imperfect mother, was completely overwhelmed by the sweet ache of it.