With my first child it was all so rushed together. It felt like infancy would never end. Wakeups and diaper changes and naps and pajamas covered in spitup. Both his pajamas and mine. I was waiting for sleep and wondering if he would still be nursing when he left for college. The days seem strangely long because I was suddenly living at a infant’s life-pace after so many years of living at the speed of an adult. I didn’t have the space to breathe, even though each hour felt like a day and each day felt like a week all on its own. Back to back growth spurts. Back to back diapers. Back to back milestones. Back to back wakeups. Trying to learn why my child was crying, what to do about it, and then as soon as I learned it, it changed. I wanted time to slow down to give me the space to respond, but I wanted time to speed back up, too. Speed back up to naptime. Speed back up to bedtime. Speed back up to sometime when I could breathe for a few minutes before it all started all over again.

The pace of my life had changed.

And then suddenly it changed again.

He was three. Within the span of a week or two he was all done with diapers, all done with nursing, all done with waking up at night, all done with sleeping in my bed.

It feels so endless when they are small. But then you realize, looking back, that it was just two years. Just three years. Just however long it was. It’s flabbergasting because you felt like you were moving through a decade but then you look back and it feels like a few short days. Just a few short days that you want back for a moment more.