a breath away

little girls, i just can't get mad when i find plastic ponies on my toilet wrapped in toilet paper, markers with no lids squashed down into the seat cushions, blankets in the bathtub, or food in my bed.  i can't be upset when i go to bed exhausted, because i have chased you two around all day.  i cannot be annoyed when i hear whining or fussing, or when i hear a crash, smash, or crack.  i just cannot be exasperated when i hear "why"  a hundred thousand times in that tiny voice of yours.  i cannot be upset about these stretchmarks on my body, or that i have a different shape now.
because one day, those ponies will be in a box covered in dust, the toilet paper will be intact, the markers in a drawer, blankets in the closet.  there will be no food hidden under my sheets, and i'll no longer be woken up by "morning, mommy!  can i have some juice?".  i won't be chasing the sounds of your bare feet pitter-pattering across the floor, or listening for the tell-tale sound of a sad little girl, or one who's broken a piece of china that cannot hug me back.  i'll have no little child to make me think carefully about my answers to "why".  these stretchmarks will stay with me, remind me of how it felt to carry you in my womb for nine months, to feel your kick like butterfly wings.  i will love them for that alone, knowing that it was my body that kept you safe all those months.  little girls, you will not stay little forever, but i promise you, the depth of my love does not change when you grow up.  and i will cherish all these little everyday things, because the day that they are gone is only a breath away.