I secretly hope that the words movies (moobies), cereal
(cerolls) and love (yove) are never pronounced correctly.
I crawl into a toddler sized bed that leaves my back and
neck aching for nighttime cuddles while reading Goodnight Moon and breathing in
his just bathed smell.
I make up ridiculous songs and sing them painfully out of
tune just to see her little round face light up with a smile that melts my
heart.
I sometimes need to choke back tears when I hear him say “That’s
pretty cool, huh Mama?” because hearing my baby excitedly say those words to me
is a constant stinging reminder that my baby isn’t a baby anymore.
I forget all about my messy hair, under eye circles and
extra pudge when he smiles up at me and says “So pretty Mama”.
I put all the criticism out of my mind when she cries and I
pick her up and cuddle just because she wants too because I know soon enough,
she won’t sit still long enough for hugs and kisses.
Even at my weakest and most exhausted, I am never at a loss
for words when defending my children.
In my heart, my babies will never be too heavy or burdensome
to carry.
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