40

I'm 40, and I mourn, not for my years, but for my babies who are growing up.  

At 30, I'm mourned for dreams unfulfilled. Arms empty and wanting, wishing for small feet and voices saying Mama.  Now three little ones raise their voices in that siren song. One, not quite six months, still cries for comfort in the wee hours of the morning.  

Life is now a whirlwind of caring for all the needs of these littles. Their needs, their disputes, their dreams, their problems, their love: they are my world. 

Seven years ago, when my oldest was just barely six months old, I had no idea how quickly she would grow, how tall she would become, and how she would strive to be older. My heart breaks a little every time I glance into the past, once again looking at who she once was.  Her personality, always bigger than life, has continued to grow with her, and my home is full of laughter, drama, and singing. Had I known then what I know now,  I would have held on a little longer to each milestone.  

I understood better when my first son arrived three short years ago.  I took more time, breathed in his babyhood, and nursed him as long as I could.  But yet again, his height is deceptive; he already looks four. His little soul must have been bathed in sunshine, for he lives for good times, and his mother tongue is humor.

My babe is already growing up too quickly. Born a week sooner than I anticipated, he's continued to hit every milestone early. We think he smiled true smiles his first week, and was flipping over by the second. He began expressing his opinions early on, and he belly laughs with gusto.  Now, as he rolls around and works towards crawling, taking little hops with his legs, I want time to slow down yet again. 

My life is too full to mourn my own years.  But my children's years seem to be flying on wings. Grateful, blessed by their lives, I wish, once again, for a little more time.