It just suddenly hit me, a punch to the stomach, so hard I had to catch my breath. They will never be little again. Not little, little, tiny baby little. Tears well up in my eyes when I think of those sleepless nights holding my little Luna, her brow constantly creased into a frown. I wish I hadn't shouted at her today. She's so fragile but so strong and likes to push every boundary as far as she can. I want to not snap but sometimes it's impossible. She will never be that teeny tiny screaming infant again, the one who only wanted her mother, unless it was 4am and then daddy would do. These days it's all "mama mama mama", a scream, an angered yell and then "mama hold me" or "hug?".
I don't spend enough time staring into Aurora's eyes and telling her I love her. Or maybe I do, but that happens in the middle of the night when we are the only ones awake. Her eyes teach me that patience really is a virtue, because she has so much of it, enough to give away and still be fine. I whisper in her ear how much I love her, kiss her soft little cheek and hope that she doesn't remember all of the times that her sister pushed her over. Or hit her on the head with a toy. There is something remarkable about being the second child... Putting up with all of that and still smiling. Maybe she is just remarkable. She is to me anyway. They both are. My little sunshines and moonlights and my reason for wanting a better life in a better place. My motivation to make sure we pursue our dreams.
I don't want to forget any of these moments. I embrace them, I snap pictures of them, I put them into words, store them away in my mind, in clouds, on paper. I embrace it all, the darker parts, the struggles, the dawns and the rainbows, even the passage of time. But I still shed a tear for those moments that I will never get back again, when everything is new and overwhelming and difficult, but beautiful and hopeful.