When I hold a newborn baby I remember infant Hawkeye, miniature Scout, Mosely Elliot, wilde little Fox, petite Piper.

I remember them all.

But my mind doesn’t stop remembering with the lavender-scented downy heads of our newborns.

I can still smell the baby spit-up endlessly residing on my shoulder.

The cottage cheese-like crud that built up in the chubby neck folds and reeked of formula on sticky hot July days.

I can’t forget the sleeplessness that seemed to settle on my brain like a fog for half a decade.

Half.  A.  Decade.  At least, people.  At least.

And of course I would not trade the first year magical experiences of my babies for anything.  I do treasure those early years – the tiny fingers grasping my thumb, pursed lips and double chins.  Plump bellies and bitty toes.

Sweet sweet memories.

But such an exhausting ride.

And then.

The fast forward button that has brought us to here.

Nineteen.  Ten.  Ten.  Eight.  Six.  Four.

These are the years that will hurt, aren’t they?

These are the years that will sting as they reach my memory years from now.

I  just think these are the years that will stick.

The years after The Helpless Neediness and the years before The Frustrating Pushing Away.

When I indulge my tender memories for my past Riley, these are the years my heart beats to.

The nine year old girl who took road trips with me.

The ten year old who still confided her secrets to me as I tucked her in.

I know I’m living in the very memory I’ll most cling to.

There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t felt the pull at the epicenter of my heart.

This is what I’ll miss.

I almost already do somehow – if that makes any sense at all.

This is the age that I have to declare as my favorite.

There are days I long for rest and solitude, but I know those days are my future and right now – I simply do love being with these children.

I just think they’re really fun people.

I’d pick them.

I like them.

They make me laugh.

They fill my heart to the tipping point and just when I think I’m going to explode from a saturated heart, I find another pocket, a recess, to stash more in.

This isn’t The Year of the Toddlers – that’s different.

This is another season.

Hang in there, moms of littles.

You won’t be nearly as tired.

You’ll laugh so much more.

You’ll eat better.  And slower.  And sit down at meals more frequently.

Your heart may literally implode.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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