I need them.

I have two tiny humans relying on me at all times. Clinging to me, begging me for crayons and kisses and noodles and tissues and chalk. They need me so much that the first thing I hear in the morning is "Momma! I awake! Come get me!" and the last thing they say as their soft cheek touches the pillow is "I hab one more story, Momma?"

They need me. So, I pour everything I have into them. I mother them until every bone aches, every heart string pulls tight-- until every fiber of my being has been used and wrung out and re-used again.

I scoop them up to kiss their scrapes, rock them to sleep, listen to their stories about robots and duckies at dinner time. Play ball with them, play trains on the carpet, read story after story, cuddle them, make cookies and messes with them.

And sometimes, sometimes I feel lost in it all. Like I disappeared into a vast expanse of stickers and fruit snacks, and that I might never find my way back.

"Ah!" I'll say to Jordan as he comes home from work and school, "I just need a minute of ME time!"

And he'll hold me and calm me down, then hand me the keys to the car. "Go," he'll say, "take as long as you need" (because he's wonderful like that).

And so I go. I wander aisles of Target, of Trader Joe's, picking up some toilet paper and a jar of cookie butter (the essentials). But mostly just walking. Thinking. Slowly. Not chasing and grabbing and saying "No!" or "Don't break that!" or "Don't put that in your brother's mouth!" ... and it is glorious.

But then, after a little while of hearing my own coherent thoughts in a weird state of quiet bliss, something happens to me: I start to miss them.

Suddenly, I feel like I don't remember what their voices sound like. I can't remember the weight of their warm bodies in my arms as they drift to sleep. I can't quite remember the smell of their freshly washed hair, or see their dimpled smiles spread as they run and play and giggle.

I quickly open my phone to look through pictures of them because I can't get home fast enough to peek into their room. To see their sleeping faces. To kiss their cheeks.

So when I start to feel like these moments/ days of chaos with my kids will never end, I suddenly realize that I may not want them to. My babies will not always be babies. And someday they won't want me like they want me now. So I can't afford to be annoyed or bothered by their cries for my arms, by their need to play with me. By their urgency to sit on my lap and show me their artwork. By their tiny arms around my ankles as I make dinner.

Because as much as they need me, I need them one thousand times more.
And when I remember this, I'm not lost anymore.

In fact, I am the most found that I've ever been.
And it's wonderful.

 **My scarf is from the amazing Jacob's Scarves. The proceeds from their scarves help underprivileged children to receive an education. Is that incredible or what? They have a special place in my heart, because the primary recipient of the funds is a little boy in China, in the same province where I taught English a few years ago. 

So go take a look at Jacob's Scarves. What an amazing thing to be a part of!

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