I'm not even talking about the fact that my own mortality or, God forbid, my babies' is ever present in my mind.
What motherhood has done for me more than anything is made me desperate. It has made me deeply desperate to remember.
Of course I am going to remember the big things.
Their earliest smiles.
The way they looked when they discovered something new.
Their first day of school.
Seriously, when did he get big enough to go to school?
I tell you, it has made me so desperate...
I can still feel that tiny weight and the roundness of his little head. I can still see the way he stretched his whole body, but still took up less than two feet of space.
I can still smell the sweetness of her head after a bath and feel the way she would nuzzle her face in my neck for comfort.
My heart aches to hold those tiny bodies just one more time. Kiss those perfect little ears, and toes, and fingers, and noses.
To watch their daddy fall in love with them, and in turn fall deeper in love with him.
One more day spent watching them discover everything around them because everything is brand new.
I know this is a wish that is shared with every mother, my own included. I am sure her heart aches, just as mine, to have "just one more day" while fully knowing that it is a fruitless wish.
And since that wish will never come true, motherhood has made me more than anything desperate to remember the little things that could so easily be lost. Every day I find myself in silent, redundant prayer of asking God to, "Lord, please let this be one of the things I keep."
The way Goose shyly smiles when she is nervous and excited at the same time.
The way Bub sings along with every song that comes on the radio.
The way I can count on hearing the scraping of a kitchen chair across the floor anytime I am cooking because she wants to help.
The way he always insistent on being Fred and me being Daphne.
The way she runs to the door announcing "Daddy's home".
The way he tells me every day that "Even when I'm mad at your, I still lub you."
The way she tells him "I lub you, brutter."
The way we have dance parties in my van.
The way that once again I get to momentarily feel that small weight in my arms as we have a family hug.
The way they laugh.
The way they smell.
The way they love each other.
I desperately want to keep the day to day things that are knitting the fabric of the person of whom they are becoming.
And I don't know how to do that other than to once again pray that God will let me have those be some of the things I keep.