Sometimes I Miss Who My Kids Were When They Were Little — Not Because of Their Age
Sometimes I miss who my kids were when they were little — not because I want them to be babies again, but because I miss the feeling of those early days. The version of them that existed only in that moment of time — wide-eyed, full of wonder, needing me in ways they don’t anymore. It’s not about wanting to turn back the clock. It’s about remembering the magic of a version of them that no longer exists, except in memory.
When they were small, life felt simpler. Not easy, but slower. The days were filled with sticky fingers, mismatched socks, and endless questions that had no real answers. I miss the way they used to run into the room just to show me a scribble and call it a masterpiece. The way their eyes would light up when I sang a silly song or made animal voices during bedtime stories. Those little quirks — the way they mispronounced “spaghetti” or insisted on wearing a superhero cape to the grocery store — those things felt ordinary then, but now I see they were fleeting gifts.
I miss the closeness. The way they used to crawl into my lap without hesitation, confident that it was the safest place in the world. I miss the nights of rocking them to sleep — even though I was exhausted — because those were the moments we were entirely in sync, heart to heart. I miss their tiny hands in mine, the spontaneous hugs, the declarations of “You’re the best!” for the smallest things, like cutting their sandwich into triangles.
It’s not that I don’t love who they are now. I absolutely do. I’m proud of their independence, their growth, the way they think for themselves and navigate the world. Watching them become their own people is an honor. But sometimes I find myself searching for traces of the little versions of them that are slowly fading away. A certain smile, a familiar giggle, the echo of a phrase they used to say — and my heart aches, just a little.
Parenthood is full of moments you don’t know are “lasts” until they’re already gone. The last time they asked you to carry them, the last time they believed you had all the answers, the last time they fell asleep on your chest. You don’t get a warning. You just look back one day and realize those days are over. That’s what I miss — not their age, but the version of them that needed me in that special way only young children do.
Missing who they were doesn’t mean I love them any less now. In fact, it’s the opposite. I love them so deeply that I grieve the versions of them that have moved on. Each stage brings something beautiful, but sometimes I close my eyes and revisit those early years — just for a moment — and hold that memory close like a favorite lullaby.