It Won't Be Like This for Long

There are mornings when I swear someone should hand moms a trophy simply for getting everyone out the door.

Someone can't find a shoe.

Someone forgot their water bottle.

The uniform that was definitely put in the laundry somehow isn't clean.

We're already seven minutes late.

Someone is yelling from the bathroom.

Someone is yelling from the car.

And Mom?

Mom is standing in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee she has reheated three times wondering how it's only 7:42 in the morning.

Motherhood can feel like that.

Loud.

Messy.

Relentless.

Beautiful.

Exhausting.

Sometimes all before breakfast.

And when we're standing right in the middle of it, it's so easy to think:

I just need to get through this season.

I can't wait until they sleep through the night.

I can't wait until they can dress themselves.

I can't wait until I don't have to pack lunches.

I can't wait until they can stay home alone.

I can't wait until they can drive themselves to practice.

I can't wait until...

And then one day they can.

And suddenly you find yourself wondering how the season you thought would never end managed to disappear so quickly.

The Days Are Long. The Years Really Aren't.

I think one of the strangest things about motherhood is how something can feel completely exhausting while you're living it and incredibly precious when you're looking back.

Remember when they crawled into your bed because they were scared?

You probably weren't lying there thinking,

"What a magical motherhood moment."

You were probably thinking,

"Move over. Your knee is literally in my kidney."

😂

But eventually they stopped coming.

And there wasn't an announcement.

They didn't walk into your bedroom one morning and say,

"Mom, just so you know, that was the final time I'll ever crawl into your bed because I'm scared."

It just...

stopped.

That's how childhood seems to disappear.

Quietly.

There was a last time you carried them.

A last time you cut up their food.

A last time they called you Mommy.

A last time they asked you to lie beside them until they fell asleep.

A last time they reached automatically for your hand.

And most of the time, we don't know it's the last time while it's happening.

That's the part that gets me.

Someday, You Might Miss the Soccer Mornings

I know.

That sounds ridiculous when your alarm is going off before the sun.

You're trying to find shin guards.

Nobody filled their water bottle.

You're loading chairs, blankets, snacks, balls and half your house into the car.

You've barely brushed your hair.

Your coffee is doing the Lord's work.

And you're driving across town—or across the state—to stand beside a field for hours.

Again.

Sometimes you think:

I cannot keep doing this every weekend.

But someday...

There won't be cleats by the door.

There won't be grass all over the floor of your car.

There won't be a uniform you suddenly discover needs washing at 10:00 the night before a game.

There won't be a kid looking toward the sideline to see if you saw that goal.

And I have a feeling we'll miss it more than we can imagine.

Not necessarily the 6:00 a.m. alarm.

Let's not get carried away.

But them.

We'll miss who they were during these years.

We'll miss being part of their world in this particular way.

Someday, the Car Will Be Quiet

This one gets me too.

Because some of the best conversations with our kids don't happen when we schedule a heart-to-heart.

They happen in the car.

On the way home from school.

Driving to practice.

Running to Target.

Sitting in the drive-thru.

They're staring out the window and suddenly say,

"So there's this boy..."

Or,

"Mom, something happened today."

And you know immediately from their voice that this conversation matters.

Sometimes it's friendship drama.

Sometimes it's a crush.

Sometimes someone hurt their feelings.

Sometimes it's something completely ridiculous that has you both laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

Those drives can feel mundane when they're happening.

They're just transportation.

Another place to be.

Another thing on the schedule.

Except...

They're not.

They're little windows into our children's lives.

And eventually, they drive themselves.

Someday, They Won't Need You Like This

That's the goal, isn't it?

We're raising them to leave us.

Which feels like an incredibly cruel job description when you really think about it.

We spend years teaching them everything.

How to eat.

How to walk.

How to talk.

How to tie their shoes.

How to make friends.

How to handle disappointment.

How to advocate for themselves.

How to drive.

How to love.

How to navigate the world.

And if we do our job well...

They need us less.

That's beautiful.

And heartbreaking.

But I think there's something important to remember:

Needing you less doesn't mean loving you less.

The relationship changes.

Mommy becomes Mom.

Holding their hand becomes answering their phone call.

Tucking them in becomes waiting for the text that says they made it home.

Fixing scraped knees becomes listening when their heart gets broken.

Eventually, motherhood becomes less about managing their lives and more about having the privilege of being invited into them.

But This Isn't a "Soak Up Every Second" Lecture

I need to say this.

Because nothing makes an exhausted mom feel worse than someone looking at her while she's barely surviving and saying:

"Enjoy every minute! It goes so fast!"

Ma'am, I haven't slept in three years.

Someone just threw applesauce at me.

I don't particularly want to cherish this exact minute.

You don't have to love every part of motherhood.

Some seasons are hard.

Some days you're exhausted.

Sometimes your kids are annoying.

Sometimes you're annoying.

Sometimes everyone needs to go to their respective corners and try again tomorrow.

You are allowed to want bedtime to arrive.

You're allowed to need a break.

You're allowed to be overwhelmed.

Noticing your life doesn't mean romanticizing every moment of it.

It means recognizing that even inside the hard seasons, there are little pieces worth holding onto.

Maybe We Don't Need to Cherish Everything.

Maybe we just need to notice more.

Notice their laugh.

Notice the way your teenager still tells you certain things before anyone else.

Notice their shoes by the front door.

Notice the way they yell "Mom!" from another room.

Notice the ridiculous conversations in the car.

Notice them sitting at the kitchen counter eating cereal.

Notice the backpack thrown on the floor.

Notice the bedtime request for one more minute.

Notice the kid on the soccer field who instinctively searches the sideline until they find you.

You don't have to stop time.

You can't.

You don't have to create magical childhood memories every weekend.

You don't need another thing to do.

Just look up sometimes.

This is it.

This ordinary Thursday.

This messy kitchen.

This drive to practice.

This conversation about a boy.

This child crawling into your bed at 2:00 a.m.

This is childhood happening.

And it won't always look like this.

What If We Stopped Waiting for the Easier Season?

I think mothers spend a lot of years believing life will begin again when things calm down.

When soccer season ends.

When the baby sleeps.

When everyone is in school.

When they can drive.

When the schedule isn't crazy.

When the laundry is done.

But I've started wondering...

What if this is the life we're waiting for?

Not someday.

This.

The chaotic, loud, imperfect life happening right now.

Maybe the goal isn't to eliminate the chaos.

Maybe it's learning to recognize the beauty living right beside it.

Because beautiful lives aren't found.

They're built.

And sometimes they're built in SUVs full of sports equipment.

Sometimes they're built over bedtime stories.

Sometimes they're built during ten-minute conversations on the way home from school.

Sometimes they're built when you put your phone down and really listen.

Small moments.

Small choices.

One ordinary day at a time.

Reflection

Before you move on with your day, think about the season of motherhood you're in right now.

What feels exhausting today that you might someday miss?

What does your child still do that you know won't last forever?

When do they seem to open up to you the most?

What ordinary moment from this week would you want to remember twenty years from now?

And perhaps most importantly:

What could you notice today without trying to change anything at all?

You don't need to create a perfect memory.

Just notice the one already happening.

A Gentle Reminder

Mama, you don't have to enjoy every second.

You don't have to capture everything.

You don't have to make every weekend magical.

And you certainly don't need another reason to feel guilty.

Just remember to look up once in a while.

The hard parts won't always be this hard.

The loud parts won't always be this loud.

The exhausting parts won't always need so much of you.

And someday, strangely enough, you may miss pieces of the chaos you once wished away.

So when you can...

Stay in the car an extra minute.

Listen to the ridiculously long story.

Hug them until they let go.

Watch the trick.

Sit on the edge of the bed.

Cheer from the sideline.

Let them crawl under your covers.

Not because you need to perfectly cherish childhood.

Because you noticed it.

And sometimes that's enough.

Before You Go...

I'm writing this reminder for myself too.

I'm still learning how to slow down.

I'm still learning to notice.

I'm still learning that I don't need to change my entire life to live it differently.

Sometimes I simply need to look up.

Maybe you do too.

So today, let's not promise to become more patient, more present, more organized, more intentional mothers overnight.

Let's do something smaller.

Let's notice one moment we normally would have rushed through.

That's it.

Because...

Beautiful lives aren't found. They're built... one small step at a time.

Slow down. Notice your life. Build what matters.

Xo, Janthina