Before I had babies, I was pretty desperate to have babies. Then I had babies and I was happy. Also, done with having babies. Then my baby turned into a three-year-old, and my evolutionary-driven ovaries are like “soooooo, how’s about moar babies?” and the rest of life/my bank balance says “whooooa easy, tiger!”.
And yet, this tiny kid is killing me every day with her cuteness. Her still-small feet, her dainty hands, her Daisy the cow lashes resting on rosy cheeks when she sleeps. Her muddled words, her literal hanging from the apron strings, her sing-song voice, crazy hair, wonky hugs, crocodile roll co-sleeping shenanigans, her penchant for sitting on the couch nearby with just one hand on me for reassurance… I don’t want her to grow up. What am I going to do without a baby on my hip? I was born for a baby on my hip.
Smalls has reached peak cuteness where she is both adorable and also reasonably self-sufficient, so parenting her is basically a non-stop joy. Parenting them both is, really.
I do hear it gets pretty awesome as time goes by and kids get older, and it’s certainly gotten easier. But these truly are the golden days and I’m enjoying them too much for them to end.
*runs off sobbing*