Don’t Let the Ache Steal the Moment

Okay, I’m guilty.

I still use a paper planner. Like an actual, write-it-down-by-hand, carry-it-around, cross-things-off-with-great-satisfaction paper planner.

With a pen.

Nope. Who am I kidding? Pencil. Always pencil. Pen is far too permanent for me. I need the freedom to erase, change my mind, move something to another day, and pretend it was always supposed to be there in the first place. Please tell me I’m not alone.

However, I have finally decided to somewhat enter the technological world the rest of you have apparently been living in for years. I’m not abandoning my beloved paper planner—let’s not get crazy—but I have decided there may be room in my life for both.

So, I ordered a Skylight Calendar.

And sure, having everyone’s schedules in one place is helpful. With three kids going in three different directions, I’ll take all the help I can get. But surprisingly, my favorite part has nothing to do with the calendar.

It’s the pictures.

I uploaded years of family photos, and now they rotate across the screen sitting in our kitchen. And lately, I’ve noticed something happening to me while I’m standing there.

I’ll be making breakfast—which sounds singular, but let’s be honest, with three kids on three different schedules I’m basically running a small diner out of my kitchen—and a picture will pop up. One of my boys with those squishy little cheeks. My daughter when she was tiny. All three of them when they were still little enough that I could somehow get everyone onto my lap at the same time.

And I stop.

And I look at them.

I just want to reach through that screen and pinch those chubby cheeks again. Kiss those little faces. Scoop them up and hear those tiny voices. Honestly, I kind of want to eat them.

And then comes the ache.

Oh, how I miss them.

Which is a strange thing to think when your children are literally still living in your house. But I miss those versions of them. I miss the little hands that automatically reached for mine. The bodies I could scoop up and carry. The voices. The mispronounced words. The years when Mom could fix almost anything with a hug, a Band-Aid and maybe a snack.

And somehow, I find myself longing for years I distinctly remember being completely exhausted by. Motherhood is funny like that. We spend some seasons wondering how we’re possibly going to survive them, only to look back years later and wish we could have one ordinary Tuesday from that season again.

Just once more.

Motherhood Asks Us to Hold Both

There’s something really strange about motherhood. You can be so excited about who your kids are becoming—and at the exact same time, grieve who they used to be. You can miss the little hands that reached for yours while being incredibly proud of the young person standing in front of you.

You can look at an old picture and feel an actual ache in your chest, and then look across the kitchen at who they are today and think, Wow, God. Look what You’re doing.

For a while, I think part of me felt guilty about the sadness—about my ache. If I missed who they once were, did that mean I wasn’t grateful for who they now are? But I don’t think that’s true anymore.

I think motherhood asks us to become really good at holding two things at once: grief and gratitude, missing and marveling, remembering and releasing. We can grieve what was and be present for what is. We can miss who they were and be excited about who they’re becoming.

Both can be true.

No One Tells You How Much This Will Cost Your Heart

No one really tells you how much this parenting gig is going to cost your heart. They tell you about the sleepless nights and the diapers and the tantrums. They warn you about teenagers. But they don’t tell you what it will feel like when someone hurts your kid’s feelings. Or when they don’t make the team. Or don’t get invited. Or walk into a new school nervous. Or experience their first real heartbreak.

But if you’re anything like me, there’s something about being a mom that makes it feel like we don’t just carry our own emotions. We carry theirs too.

When they’re excited, we’re excited. When their heart breaks, somehow ours does too. When they succeed, we’re ridiculously proud. And when they fail, we have to fight every instinct that wants to swoop in and make it all better.

Because when they’re little, so much of our job is protecting them. Hold my hand. Stay close. Let Mommy help. And then almost without warning, motherhood starts asking something different of us: release, trust, watch, pray. Let them try. Let them fail sometimes. Let them discover who God created them to be.

And maybe that’s another reason growing up hurts. We’re not only saying goodbye to little versions of them. We’re saying goodbye to versions of us too—the mom who was needed for every scraped knee, the mom whose kiss could fix almost anything, the mom who knew where everyone was because, well, they were usually standing three feet away asking for another snack.

Our role changes right alongside them. But I’m learning something important: Their independence isn’t evidence that we’re losing them.

In many ways, it’s evidence that the years we’ve poured into them are doing what they were supposed to do.

Releasing Doesn’t Mean Disappearing

Now, let’s be clear. I’m not talking about throwing our hands up when our kids hit the teenage years and saying, “Welp, good luck out there!” Quite the opposite. I’ve found that these years require some of our most intentional parenting.

Our teenagers still need boundaries. They need wisdom. They need guidance. They need someone willing to say no when no is what love requires. They need us to stay engaged when it might be easier to pull away.

Releasing the leash a little doesn’t mean dropping it altogether. Maybe it means learning when to hold tighter and when to give a little more room. When to speak and when to listen. When to step in and when to let them work something out. When to protect and when to allow them to experience the consequences that will help them grow.

I’m still figuring that out right alongside them. But I know this: they still need us. They just need us differently.

And perhaps that’s one of the hardest and most beautiful transitions of motherhood.

Don’t Miss This Version

There’s something else those pictures on my Skylight are teaching me.

One day, I’m going to miss this version too.

That’s the thought that stops me. Because if I spend all of these years staring backward wishing I could have my little kids again, I might wake up one day and realize I missed the teenagers who were standing right in front of me.

These years are going to become the pictures too.

One day I’ll miss the kid who walks into my kitchen and immediately starts looking for food. I’ll miss the shoes by the door, the practices, the rides, the late-night conversations, and the ridiculous things that make us laugh. I might even miss reminding someone for the 487th time to put their cup in the dishwasher.

Maybe.

Let’s not get carried away.

But this version of them will only exist once too. And especially in the teen years, I want to stay awake to that.

Because parenting teenagers isn’t always easy. They need boundaries and wisdom and guidance, yes. But they also need us to notice them. To listen, ask questions, laugh with them, enter into their world, and enjoy them.

Not just correct them. Not just monitor them. Not just prepare them for whatever comes next—

To enjoy who they are right now.

Look What God Is Doing

And now there’s something else I notice when I’m standing in my kitchen. The pictures aren’t all old anymore. They’re mixed.

A little face flashes across the screen, and then a current one. The little boy with the chubby cheeks, then the young man he’s becoming. The tiny girl I could scoop into my arms, then the young woman standing in front of me.

Past. Present. Past. Present.

And instead of only thinking, God, where did my babies go? I’m trying to ask a different question: Lord, who are You making them into?

Because He’s been at work the entire time. The little personality traits that used to make us laugh are becoming strengths. Gifts are emerging. Passions are developing. Character is being formed. Faith is becoming their own.

And I have a front-row seat to all of it.

What a privilege.

I don’t know what God is preparing my kids for. None of us do. Maybe the little girl you’re dropping off at kindergarten will grow up to change someone’s life. Maybe the middle schooler trying desperately to figure out where he belongs will someday be the person who notices someone else standing alone. Maybe the teenager testing every boundary right now will become a leader, a husband, a wife, a parent, a friend—someone who uses everything God has placed inside of them for His purposes.

We don’t know. We’re somewhere in the middle of their story.

And we get to watch it unfold.

Don’t Let the Ache Steal the Moment

So, Mama, keep looking at the old photos. Please do. Tell the stories. Remember the little hands. Laugh about the things they used to say. Miss those chubby cheeks. Let yourself ache a little.

You don’t have to feel guilty for that.

But then…Look up.

Look at the child God has entrusted to you today. Because someday, the pictures we’re taking right now will be the ones flashing across a screen in our kitchen. And we’ll wonder where these years went too.

I don’t have to choose between gratitude for who they were and excitement for who they’re becoming. I can hold both. I can remember. I can grieve. I can celebrate. I can release. And I can stay awake to the beautiful, messy, exhausting, hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking, holy season happening right in front of me.

Maybe that’s what my fancy new technological calendar is teaching this pencil-and-paper girl.

The pictures can live side by side. And maybe the seasons can too.

The little ones they were. The big kids they are. The adults they’re becoming. All part of the same story God is writing.

So when one of those baby pictures pops up tomorrow morning, I’m sure I’ll still stop. I’ll probably still want to reach through the screen and kiss those cheeks. I may even feel that familiar ache.

But then I’m going to look up.

Because they’re still here. They’re still becoming. And God isn’t finished.

Don’t let the ache steal your moments.