Most nights we employ a bedtime routine. After dinner, I clean the kitchen while Chris plays "rough" with the boys and then gives them a bath. He dresses them in their PJs and they all sit on the couch to read books.
Most nights, after the kitchen is clean and I've filled everyone's milk orders on the couch, I collect laundry from the bathroom, turn back the covers on the boys' beds, and pick up stray fighter jets and race cars. I am busy doing things while Chris is reading, trying to begin the following day with a "clean slate" instead of adding to the accumulated mess.
But last night, I sat down in the living room and watched Chris read to our boys.
And my heart broke into 2,000 pieces.
My kids are so small and precious.
How long will Timothy still be excited to wear shirts that have dinosaurs and construction vehicles on them?
Matthew has his attention fixed on the story, his little mouth turning up at the corners when the inflection in Chris' voice changes.
How long will he be wearing footed pajamas? How long will his hair be a halo of blond ringlets?
I wish I could pause this moment.
My heart is so full it just might split at the seams.
Oh, God. Please forgive me for wanting to rush through "this stage", or for getting unreasonably frustrated when Timothy takes toys from his brother and clobbers him and makes him cry or when Matthew knocks down Timothy's block castle and makes him cry. Or when I JUST WANT TO TALK ON THE PHONE FOR 5 MINUTES without someone screaming.
These babies, who I could have SWORN just came home from the hospital last week, will be driving cars and calling girls before I know it.
Someone hand me a paper bag to breathe in.
People are always telling Chris and I to "enjoy them" because childhood goes by so fast.
I want to tatoo that on my heart.
I haven't been doing that enough lately.
Thank God for fresh starts.