My Days are Numbered

I'm going to get a little (okay - a lot) wistful on you here for a bit.

I went home at lunch today to try to get a few chores done. Anyone else out there with a 2.5 year old will understand where I'm coming from because let's face it: the little buggers are detrimal to your ability to complete any given task including, but not limited to, going to the restroom. Apparently this skill is somewhere in their job description and they zealously and consistently maintain high marks in this particular area of being a 2.5 year old.

So I am methodically unloading (not much to unload because the dishwasher has lately become just another cupboard for clean dishes that get used frequently) the few clean dishes and begin to put in the dirty dishes that have been stacking up for the last few days. I really have no idea why we have dirty dishes because nobody cooks and we pretty much all eat out of a bag or a box.

Anyways, I was putting all the little colored plastic forks and spoons and sippy cups in to be washed when the thought suddenly struck me: One day soon there will not be any little colorful forks and spoons and cups to wash. Such a feeling of sadness washed over me that I almost started crying. My little boy is not a baby anymore. He's walking and talking and so many times of late he adamantly refuses my or Daddy's help to go to the potty or pull up his training pants or put on his boots or walk up/down the front steps or get in/out of the truck. He's growing at such a rapid rate it seems. I'm running to keep up with him that I don't have time to reminisce about his baby days. They literally flew by.

Maybe that had something to do with the sleep deprivation I was suffering from. For those of you who were lucky enough to have a new baby sleep through the night the first night home from the hospital, you won't understand what I am talking about. At 2.5 he is just now starting to sleep through the night. The pediatrician tells me that some kids just don't sleep their full 10-12 hours for the first couple of years. It's common. But it still makes me kind of angry that I was soooooo exhausted that I barely remember his first year. My body was on auto pilot after the first two weeks.

And now here we are: He's 2.5 going on 12 and I'm blubbering over plastic utensils. Where did the time go? Why did my body require so much sleep that I can't even remember the joy of being a new mommy to a beautiful blue-eyed auburn fuzz-headed little angel?

I read a piece by Anna Quindlan not too long ago wherein she talked about putting too much thought into getting things done (wake up, breakfast, brush teeth, get dressed, school, home, dinner, bath, book, prayers, bed) and not enough time spent enjoying the moments and fully living in them. The day of a picnic in the backyard, what did we eat? what did they play with? how did they sound when they giggled? *sigh*

If my days are numbered then I'm going to work at making them count. I'm going to click on my mental recorder every time he says "I ruv you, Momma" and if we play so long outside that he's late getting to bed - big deal. We'll play til we're all played out and at the end of the day, he'll fall asleep knowing that Momma ruvs him, too. More than he'll ever know.

Til he has little ones of his own.