Last night, after the boyz were showered (Eldest) and bathed (Middle) (Baby did both--he showered first with Eldest and then scurried dripping wet and naked down the hall and hopped into the tub with Middle), I had some alone time with each of them as I helped towel them dry and get them into their jammies.
I made each one step on the scale, just for shits and giggles.
Eldest is a hefty 45 pounds. He's the intimidating football player, remember? Middle is a hulking beast at 3-1/2 years old and 29 pounds. And Baby brings up the rear at age 2-1/2, with a weight of 26 pounds. I swear I'm raising future horse jockeys. Kentucky Derby, here we come!
Next came "beauty treatments" (fingernail and toenail clipping). Hubby hates that I call it that because it sounds so feminine, but hello? I'm the only female in the Trenches. I gotta be allowed to use the lingo.
So while Middle and Baby were still in the tub, Eldest and I were in the hallway outside the bathroom. I had him sitting on my lap for maximum clipping maneuverage.
That's when the thought occurred to me: At what age will they get too big for me to clip their toenails? When won't they want their mother touching them? Sitting on my lap, allowing me to stroke their hair, snuggling, cuddling, carrying them...
And I got sad. Really sad. Clipping raggedy toenails!
But it's obviously so much more than that: At the thought that someday, this time, this moment will all be a distant memory.
That someday the Trenches will inhabit 3 gangly (that's pretty much a given), pimply, smelly teenage boyz. Who may or may not want their mother to even look at them, much less hug them...
Jeez, I wonder what deep thoughts I'll have tonight as I take a q-tip to their ears...