Some people are baby people. I am not. Don’t get me wrong—I love my babies. I enjoy trying to coax out that first smile, that first giggle. I relish their first, cooed conversations and those sweet moments when they nuzzle into your chest as they are dropping off to sleep. There’s a lot to love about babies.
At the same time, I find that my joy at those precious firsts is not entirely selfless. With that first front-to-back roll, I think, “Oh, good—we’re that much closer to crawling!” With the ability to grasp and shake toys comes my joy at realizing that my baby is getting closer to being able to play. In fact, with each day that passes, part of me sighs my relief that my teeny one is one day less teeny.
I feel a little bit bad about this, as if I’m not savoring the time enough or treasuring my kids enough. It’s not that I don’t love my children—I do. I just love them more and more the older they get. I love hearing their thoughts and observations, I love witnessing their imaginations at work, I love their pride in learning how to dress themselves or ride a bike. Sure, there are days when my kids use their growing vocabularies to scream at each other, days their creativity is focused on destroying the house, days when their independence is enough to make me want to pull my hair out…but much of the time, MOST of the time, I glory in their growth.