There was a part of parenthood, the early part, if I remember correctly,  that felt a bit lonely. These little people I made didn’t have a very vivid vocabulary yet or superb conversational skills. They ate things while strapped into a chair. They got dressed when I carried them into their room and dressed them. They went to the car when I carried them to the car and strapped them in. They needed me endlessly. Until they didn’t.

This part of parenthood, the part I find myself in now with a 7 and 8 year old, is definitely not as lonely. In fact, some days it seems like I have zero chance of ever being alone again. I treasure the hours between 8 pm and 10 pm (when I am currently writing this), because these are the hours when I remember my own thoughts, watch my own TV, eat my own unhealthy snacks.

I am nostalgic for the days of sippy cups and morning feedings. I miss the blissful quiet of a well-earned afternoon nap after an exhausting pumpkin patch visit. I watch videos of them as babbling toddlers on the verge of tears. Where did that little voice go? What happened to that little face? It’s almost like I dreamt it.

They are big personalities now. They fight, have specific opinions about EVERYthing and vocalize their experience with the world play by play. There’s zero quiet time, very few morning cuddles, and bedtime stories are read less and less by me.

But there are still Barbies in the bathtub.

When I stand in bathroom, simultaneously drying my hair and scrubbing the toilet (don’t judge) and I see my husband dump 8-10 naked Barbies on the floor before he takes a shower, I remember.

This is a phase, too. 

There will not always be Barbies in our bathtub. There won’t always be little Lego heads stuck in the vacuum. There won’t always be slime staining the bedroom carpet AGAIN.

Today, I sat in my house alone trying to read a book. Being alone in my house, while luxurious, feels wrong. The mess that is our house is an expression of the life inside it. The french toast casserole left on the paper plate tells the story of the picky boy who doesn’t like “things with eggs in it.” The decks of cards spread under the coffee table tells the story of the little girl who makes up her own card tricks.

And the Barbies in the bathtub mean she still plays in the bath. I still wash her hair. And she still lets me.

This phase feels different. Like the calm before a storm that I never want to come. The luxury of my children, and their stuff, spread far and wide so there is no mistaking their presence.

Their shoes will get bigger. Their showers will get longer. The time out spot will shift from in front of the front door to behind the door of their bedroom.

The snacks will disappear more quickly, the conversations will be shorter and reveal less. The grocery bill will increase. My inbox won’t be filled with Sign up Genius PTA spam.

They will text me with requests from upstairs. I will knock on their door and offer snacks.

And there won’t be a Barbie in sight.

I’m having trouble appreciating this phase of the parenting hamster wheel. It feels more ominous, it tricks me in its exhausting chaos. It makes me think I want it to end.

But between the hours of 8 pm and 10 pm, I am praying to God it slows down. Because I am missing it before it is even gone. I am mourning it before it has a chance to disappear. I am feeling like this part of parenting is falling through my fingers.

Nine years ago, I held a baby in my belly and had so many thoughts of how I would be a good parent to the little person inside me. I didn’t know that the more I parented, the more I would want to parent. And not meaning more children, but more chances to parent the same children. Wishing for the time travel of hearing your baby make new baby sounds, or listening to them laugh their baby laugh, or the way they would say “try again” when they wanted to see something repeated.

So, for my parents of children aged 7-11, look for the signs in your own home. Remind yourself that though so many parts of the baby and the toddler might be amiss, there’s little signs that the souls that you live with are not yet tweenagers.

And, for a while, I promise I will not organize all the abandoned items of playtime into their prescribed Tupperware bins. I will not yell down the stairs about the doll clothes that are spread all over the hallway. I will not line up the books perfectly on the shelf for the umpteenth time.

For a while, I will think: this is a mess I should try to love. Because in the naked Barbies left stranded in the bathtub, there is evidence that they still have more growing to do.