The primary job description for a parent is helping your children to become the best people they can be. Educate them, feed them well, teach them manners and respect, let them get enough exercise, enough rest, inspire them, praise them and, naturally, correct their mistakes. You take pride when they reach milestones. Applaud when they walk, potty train, go to school, learn to read. I was ecstatic when I didn't have to buy any more diapers, tote around strollers, wake in the night for feedings, or schedule our lives around nap times. Seeing my kids make friends and achieve new goals at school is thrilling for me. I watch in awe as my daughter churns through chapter books so quickly that we need to make constant trips to the library for more. They shoot up like weeds, outgrow their clothes in a matter of weeks and constantly constantly need new shoes. They use words like inappropriate, actually, and supposedly, as easily as they used to say mama and cup. And even better, they use them correctly! This is not to say that having older kids doesn't come with new challenges; mainly their attempts at manipulation, the drama queen moments and the sassy back-talk. It's like fighting a battle with an enemy that constantly and slyly acquires new weapons. You keep fighting but can't help but stop and admire their adaptability and resourcefulness. All told, though, having kids who have graduated out of toddler-dom is surprisingly nice.
Yet. A woman walks by at the grocery store with a gorgeously rounded belly and wonderfully comfortable elastic-waist maternity pants (remember the glory?!) and something in my heart hurts for a moment. I try to think of all the sleepless nights she has coming, all of the aches and pains, the desire to just have an inch of space or a moment of time to herself, and all of those damn dirty diapers. And yet, that fleeting hurt darts by for just a second. But then I can turn to my six year old and have a shockingly adult conversation that makes me smile and shine with pride. And remember that mine will go to bed and stay there all glorious night long.
So I have put the question of having more children to rest. I love working. I love sleeping. I love the adult part of my life and the maturity of my two growing kids. But that part of me that remembers fondly the baby years stops before I correct those last few words that my kids mispronounce, even though I know it's my mom-job to fix them. I stop myself because I know they will self-correct soon enough. So if my four year old insists that it's a piddy bank, and not a piggy bank, I'm ok with that. If my daughter says rusually instead of usually, I let it slide. And when they both cheer after school on Friday because it's the weekand, I cheer with them and let that small piece of their babyhood linger on.
