I had my first child when I was just 18. A baby having a baby. I loved that little girl instantly and tried to be as good a mom as an 18-year-old could be. But it was tough. Add 2 more children into the mix and it became even more difficult. I don’t ever remember not having children. As diapers changed to potty training, preschool changed to elementary school and scraped knees turned to broken hearts, I remember thinking how exhausted I was. How I could not wait for a living room without toys scattered everywhere, or not having to deal with homework each night, or not having to struggle to afford school clothes. I wished for more hours in the day. I wished for more money. I wished for more “me” time. I wished. I wished. I wished. Now as my last child prepares to move out, I have different wishes. I wish I would have taken the time to snuggle more before bedtimes, I wish I would have not chosen a clean floor over playdough, I wish I would have spent more time being silly in the puddles instead of worrying about tracking up my kitchen floor. I wish I hadn’t been so easily irritated when they asked me to read yet ANOTHER book. I wish I had savored more of the tiny moments that make up life. I wish I could turn back the clock. I wish my heart wasn’t breaking into a zillion little pieces because my youngest is leaving. I wish.