I've been thinking lately about how much of motherhood is about waiting.
Waiting for him to be born.
Waiting for him to sleep through the night.
Waiting for her to take her first steps without me holding her hand.
Waiting to hear her first words.
Waiting for her to learn to read.
Waiting for him to start kindergarten.
Waiting for 3:30 so I can see him again.
Waiting for her to come sit with me so we can read together.
Waiting for him to talk to me and tell me how his day went.
Waiting for her to walk beside me again and hold my hand.
Waiting for him to get home so I can fall asleep, knowing he’s okay.
Waiting to remember what it was like before they were born, to remember what my hobbies are, to remember how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve potty-training techniques or immunizations or how to get them to clean their rooms.
Waiting to be a little less sad about watching them grow up—something I’ve been waiting for and also dreading.