We have right now. And forward is the only direction.

It's happened to me twice, and both times I was at Target. First in the diaper aisle, as I scanned the rows for a pack of pull-ups with the best price and best cartoon character on the front.

The second time was in the parking lot, when I spotted a young mom collapsing a stroller and tossing it in the trunk in one fluid motion. It's a skill. I gave her a silent nod of respect. 

Each time, I felt it. A pang of loss. The "new mom" season in my life is fading away. 

My first baby and my third baby had birthdays this week. Nine and three. Still young. Still children. But not babies. 

We didn't have any grand celebrations this year. We kept it low-key and simple. And I think we all liked that for a change. But packed into the middle of the birthday week was Valentines Day, and that leads me to a separate but related story.

We had to make valentines for three classrooms, and while Cate's were relatively low maintenance, the boys' valentines required cutting out a template and folding the pattern into a box that looked like a treasure chest (it's a Minecraft thing). The person who created the template warned on her website that making the boxes would take some time. So, being the good students that we are, we made them the night before. The boys helped as much as they could, but my husband and I ended up staying up for hours to finish them. (Shawn wins the prize, because he stayed up later than I did.)  

Shawn kept it all in perspective. We often take turns being positive, and it was his turn. At one point he said, "This is what memories are made of. One day we'll say to the boys, 'Remember that time we stayed up all night making your valentines?'"

I groaned and snapped a picture, knowing he was right. 

I kept looking at the job ahead and trying not to cry. We continued to cut and fold. There was no joy in this project. No love. I was bone tired. Why were we even doing this? 

We were doing it because the boys were excited about them, and at one point, I thought it would be fun. We were doing it because when we searched online for printable valentines (something I thought would be so easy) I said, "Pick the one you like." We were doing it because I totally underestimated how much time it would take.

Now, I felt like we were wasting our time. Depleting our energy over something pointless. Stupid valentines.

But the following morning, the boys were so happy to see their flimsy treasure boxes. They were all smiles when they headed out the door for school. When I picked them up that afternoon, they were chatty and happy as they dug through their treat bags filled with loot.

When we got home Dillon handed me a card that he'd made at school that day. It said, "Mom, thank you for the treasure boxes, and for well... everything." 

So, in addition to feeling like a jerk, I recognized that my husband and I had done something my sons will remember. The assembly line production may not have been necessary, but it wasn't pointless. 

I decided to share the valentine story because I've noticed that Dillon seems a little melancholy about turning nine. He's very aware that he's moving out of the season of young childhood and into something new. He's having a tough time seeing beyond where he is, and he's wondering how becoming older can be better than being a little kid.

He watches his younger sister, recognizes how positively adorable she is, and remembers being that little, too. Quite often he says, "I want her to stay this size forever." 

On the night of his birthday, we sat together on the couch. He was watching a show on the iPad while I watched "Fixer Upper" on the DVR. He glanced at the number 9 balloon tied to the end of the stairs and said, "So. I'm nine. I'll never be eight again." Then he said, "I don't want to grow up."

Those days of slinging a folded up stroller into the back of my car are behind me. But this transition is not just happening to me. It's happening to all of us. We'll each experience it and feel it in our own ways, but it's not a solo event.

I tried to think about what to say, something that felt true and honest, and hopeful. I told him that I understood. I told him that I remember being nine and feeling sad about the transition to double digits. "And, when I turned twenty, I felt sad about not being a teenager anymore." 

I thought for a moment and then I said, "Being a kid is pretty great. I love to watch you and Blake and Cate, running around and playing. I liked being nine. But I like the age I am now, too. It really does keep getting better." 

Then, I paused for a moment, asking myself if I truly believed that. It keeps getting better. And I realized that I do. "The most important thing we can do is try to enjoy each day the best that we can," I said. 

I think about the night I was so frustrated by those stupid valentines. I try not to feel bad about it. I was tired. It's true, I don't enjoy every day. Some days, my fatigue takes over and my attitude sucks. But each day is a chance to learn and grow and be better and experience more joy tomorrow.

I have to remember what I told my son. The most important thing we can do is try to enjoy each day the best we can. 

It's my job to teach my children this thing that I believe, even as I struggle to live it. No matter our age, we have right now. And forward is the only direction.

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