A couple of nights ago Ellie woke up at 3am and for some reason didn’t fall back asleep until nearly 5:00. This hasn’t happened in a long time. She needed to go potty, but then she was wide awake and not all that interested in being left a) in her crib and b) alone. I, on the other hand, really wanted to go back to bed. I took her potty, got her a drink of water, gave her kisses, took her potty again, said prayers, petted her kitty, covered her again, got her more water, took her potty again…you get the idea. Between all of this, during those times when I thought she had gone back to sleep and I was, thanks so much, too awake to sleep, I got to thinking about all those times when the girls were babies and I was just waiting (and sometimes praying) for that magical age, whatever it might be, when they would just sleep through the night…play by themselves…walk…express themselves in a way other than crying…stop dropping food on the floor (still waiting on that one…).
I think it’s like this for most mothers, but the more I thought about it the worse I felt that I spent so much of their baby time not really enjoying the moment because I was so looking forward to the next moment. This isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy them as babies, because I did, but at the same time I couldn’t wait for those magical moments when life would suddenly get so much better. It makes me sad that I spent so long waiting for “everything to be better” when it was already so good.
So the conclusion I came to, around 4:30 in the morning when Ellie put her arms around me and said, "I yuv you, Mommy," is that there’s no such thing as the magical age when everything becomes better. Because they’re all magical.