My daughter’s pajamas are too small.
So are my son’s.
Oh, and the babies are getting snug too.
Pajamas these days are not too expensive and I even have boxes full of hand-me-downs waiting for my youngest, but for some reason, going up a size tugs at my heart.
I put off the transition as long as possible.
I feel better knowing the baby is in 18 months and the kids are wearing a 3T but moving them up a size, one that is bigger in number than they are in age? That is just crazy talk.
I want them to stay little. I want to have a house ringing with mispronounced words and rolling with sippy cups, whole milk in the fridge and bibs stacked in the drawer.
I am not ready for toddler beds or booster seats or back packs instead of diaper bags.
Tomorrow night is our local pre-school fair and my heart wants this forecasted blizzard to sweep through and take with it the thought of letting go of two of my babies hands, even if it is for only a few hours every week.
As crazy as the days are and as much as I do not enjoy 10 packets of Sweet-n-Low in my water at dinner or the toilet overflowing on the babysitter because there was a candle inside,
I love, love, love being a mom, being their mom and their big sister’s mom and their sister’s mom, who has never gotten to enjoy a moment of this wild wonderfulness, and I just want the time to slow down.
I want to go backwards and double check to make sure I did not miss a thing, then creep forwards very slowly, allowing me time to savor every bit of kids small enough to balance on my hip and slobbery kisses regretfully wiped from my cheek after they turn away and that clicking sound in the dryer as baby snaps and buttons tumble over and under each other and crayons that may have been nibbled on before they were used and dolls under my comforter, pacifiers in my make up drawer and everything, everything about being the mom to babies,
growing out of their pajamas
way too soon.
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