. . . an emotional one, that is.
It hit me over the weekend that Ben will be one in less than three weeks. In fact, had he come on the day that I had my false alarm, he would already be one! I keep thinking about how, in a few short weeks, our home will be bottle-free. We'll have a toddler and a preschooler, but no baby. On Thursday, I was cleaning my office at camp, and found a tiny little diaper from when Ben was still small enough to come to work with my every day. I can't believe he ever fit in it. And now, he's (literally) running in circles and saying new words every day.
Yes, this year was one of the hardest of my life, but I'm still finding myself wanting to do it over again. I think about the missed opportunities and the fact that Ben will never be three weeks old or 3 weeks old or 3 months old again and the tears flow.
And then there's Jack . . . I just sat and watched him play today, marveling at the fact that he was once small enough to nap on my lap. There was a time in which he couldn't ask us more questions that we can count, and he didn't say "Hey Mom, Can I . . . " 10,000 times a day. And now he's this little boy. This huge 3-year-old. And he's heading to preschool in less than 2 weeks.
I'm ready for him to go . . . he needs to be out of the house, to meet new friends and to learn the social etiquette that he will in a classroom setting. And I need for someone else to answer a few of the 3 million questions he asks every day (no, Jack, I don't know why they didn't call north "south" and call south "north"). Still, I'm fighting something deep down inside of me that just wants to keep him home and never let him leave.
These days are precious.