by Amy

i watch them play.  in and out of the curtain, laughing and running into each other.  two point five years apart, roughly.

when i look at them, i see that the oldest was once four.  and he was once 18 months.  and it’s hard to remember what he was like then.  moments flash back between happy and sad and common.  painting and tears and ice cream on a stick and lost teeth.  how has it been so much time since your head was the same width as your shoulders and your only words were uh oh and mama?

i see the youngest and how he will be four someday.  and then six.  as he wraps his arms around my neck, i pray i never forget that feeling.  but i look forward to his words forming sentences and him saying things like “unfortunatly” way too young with a little boy lisp.  i can’t wait for the day i watch him pour his own cereal, proud and determined.

i see the middle boy and that he was eighteen months once.  and he will be six before i know it.  i remember holding him and thinking, “how will you ever do anything wrong, you are so sweet!” and how he has totally proven me wrong.  i hear his giggles now, and then and imagine what they will sound like after a voice change.

they don’t stop growing.  while certain things about them seem to never change, in the most awesome way, other things are changing.  i love them in this moment and, while not wishing them away, look forward to the next moments.  i don’t know anything past six.  and i can’t wait to find out.  but for now, we will run in and out of the fibers with a blanket of sun behind us.  and we will laugh and fall over and keep growing together.