I passed a stroller the other day holding two, perfect, sleeping newborns. They were twin girls, dressed in matching clothes. Their heads even lolled off to the same side of the infant car seat bucket. “Look,” I pointed to my two-year old. “Babies.” She got all excited. “Ohhhhh. Those babies are sleeping. Shushhhh.”
I do not miss the early months of parenting. But already, I am mourning the passage of my daughter’s third year of life.
Two-years old is by far my favorite age. I love that they spend their entire days canvassing the house for things to either destroy or climb; that in a split second they can go from joy to heartbreaking devastation; that they discover wonder and humor in the most mundane things. My kids are the most deliberately loving toward me when they are two; their hugs are tightest, most desperate for affection. I love that just a band-aid or a little bit of ice will cure all of their hurts.
We are done with creating our family. I will never look back and wish I could be pregnant again. I will never miss having babies who don’t talk or walk, or crawlers who pick up dust bunnies and eat them. As adorable as I found my kids in the younger years, I don’t cope well with the stresses that babies bring. But by the time they reach two, I remember why it is that I love being a mother. And I hope that next spring, when I no longer have a two-year old, I will keep long-lasting memories of what that very special year was like with each of my three daughters.