The scene: We're playing board games in the hall while hoping the colorful cards and cardboard pieces will be enough to tempt our son toward us from the other side of the walkway (while he never actually gets his belly off the ground in a forward motion, he does somehow manage to sit himself up - for the first time ever). It's Micaiah's turn in Hi-Ho Cherry-O. I had my eye on Emmett when suddenly I realize my daughter, out of the corner of my other eye, just counted cherries into her basket.
"One . . . Toooo . . . Treee."
"You spun four; don't forget the fourth one." Her daddy says as he waits patiently for her.
Sure enough. When we pull out the video camera, she hems and haws for a few minutes, but once again, it's straight through five. She missed six and ten, but the rest were right there, in order, from her own mouth.
I love my amazing kids. Growing up so fast.
Just this evening, even before any of the above, I pondered just how it happens. That they can go from being this tiny, helpless being in our arms to being a stubborn two-year-old who will chew, but not swallow, her broccoli. And we never even saw it happen. We were here every day and somehow she grew up right in front of us - each day marking one more change that we somehow missed. When did she get this tall? Her hair so long? Her limbs losing their baby fat. When did it all happen?
And now she's counting. And her brother is pulling himself to sitting. And he'll be crawling, walking, running, skipping, before we even know what's happened.
Sometimes I wish it would all just slow down. And, yet, I'm so proud. So proud of how wonderful they are and the progress they've made.
I suppose that's the dichotomy of life: loving the progress, but missing the time.