'Tis the season. The season of bouncing and nursing and patting and rocking to sleep. Of multi-tasking and making snacks, crafting and cleaning up. 'Tis the season of to-do's and never-dones. Of snuggling and listening and kissing away owies. This is the season of missed date nights, going to bed at different times, children spanning the distance between us. 'Tis the season of giving giving giving until there is nothing left, counting the minutes until bedtime and missing them when they're asleep. This season is HARD. Hard and exhausting and fleeting. Today, I feel like quitting. I'd like to trade in my round, stretch-marked, postpartum, pajama-wearing bod and spend a day in my old life. (It was so quiet back then, I had no idea.) I will do everything in my power to focus on the fleeting; knowing I will look back on this time so fondly. I will miss little hands in my hands, downy-soft baby hair against my cheek, making up answers to 100 questions about unicorns. And I will wake up tomorrow (or, more realistically, half a dozen times between now and then) and start again.