Last night, my family returned home from the beach. For the first time, I finished an entire book on vacation. I didn’t pack swim diapers or pull-ups. We even left the baby stroller at home. Instead of taking my 4 year-old for a ride on my early morning runs, my daughter joined me, excited to be my “workout buddy” while the younger two played at the condo until everyone else woke up.
As I watched my kids play in the surf, I was hit with the realization that my oldest will be nine next month. Now 4, 6, and 8, my kids are growing up fast. They don’t need me nearly as much as they used to.
For a long time, I dreamt of the day I’d be done breast-feeding and potty-training. When I didn’t have to lug a pack-and-play on vacation or spend hours trying to get my kids to sleep in an unfamiliar location. That day is now here and I’m finding the sweet taste of freedom is mixed with a twinge of nostalgia. My kids are officially past the baby phase. Those years I thought I’d never get through have become fleeting moments in time I’ll never get back.
I walk up to my girls and ask, “Want to go for a swim with me?”
“No,” they reply in unison. “We want Dat!” (The name they call their grandfather.)
This won’t be the last time my girls choose a guy over me.
As quickly as this day has come, I recognize many others aren’t far off. And my mind starts to wander…
There will be a day when my kids wake up and no longer ask for my opinion on what to wear. (Instead, I’ll be sending them back to their room to change.)
There will be a day when my kids are all in school and the screams and squeals that used to drive me insane will sound strangely inviting.
There will be a day when my kids get off the bus and no longer run to me with open arms. They won’t want to wake up early to workout with their momma or sit on my lap while I read them stories. They won’t ask me to play with them on the floor, snuggle them to sleep, or hold their hand as they walk down the street.