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Things won't always be this way. My children won't forever be so small and jubilant and exhausting and dependent and adorable and clingy and close and pure and free. I won't always spend time oscillating between bone-deep struggle and cosmic euphoria with them. They won't take my face in their hands or surprise me with tickles or tell me about how the world is a garden bed or look at me like I'm magic. They won't beg to be held and only fall asleep at my side. Their precious voices will deepen, the distance between us will grow, and their turning toward me will become less and less frequent. So, I'm leaning into this tiring summer of sticky delight. The goodness is syrupy sweet, like overripe blackberries falling from vines; the intimacy is as intense as the air's humidity; the brightness lingers into evening's promise for rest. But there is reprieve in the fireflies blinking at twilight, the spontaneous swell of energy that inspires a longing to chase them. There is freshness in every newly-noticed thing. There is the knowledge that these long, luminous days are but a season to relish, to hold and savor in hands covered with dirt and juice from abundant fruit, to treasure for their warmth and weight and wonder, while they last.