When we brought her home, I thought you were so grown. So big. So much more than the 2.5years you were. You spoke so well. You called her “my sweet baby girl”. You brought me diapers, my pump, burb cloths, the remote and you patiently pretended to tend to your baby dolls while I cared for your sister. You got concerned if she cried. You tried to help. Holding her was your favorite new skill. While we saw the excitement wane a bit when she became mobile and was interested in all “your” toys, the love was so firmly rooted it couldn’t be shook.

I’m certain I’ll look at pictures of your current 4yr old self and think to my future self “I thought you were so grown.” You tell me “I’m not Kolten, I’m Spider-Man 🕷!” pretty consistently. You still rub Guy’s horns when you’re tired or upset or hurt 🦒. I’m still your very favorite person. And dad is a real close second. You come straight to me with your joy, fear and pains. I know in two years I’ll think you’ve grown so much more, only to look back yet again at the child you really were.

Motherhood. It’s such a trick. You birth this human and you’re never the same. Your heart beats outside of your body in your child. And then I went and did it again. And yet again, a new part of my heart grew and then began to live outside of me in her. I’m not the same, but I am everything I hoped I would be.

Slow down. Slow down. Slow down. Everything, please slow down. Your growth. My aging. Our fleeting time in this precious space where I am you and you are me. Where our love is not yet convoluted with the intricacies of teenage angst, hormones and “coolness”.

Savor, savor, savor. Everything.

Every.

Little.

Thing.

Motherhood. Slowly savor every precious thing.