Right Before Three

I had knee surgery this week, and it’s forced me to slow down just enough to realize how much is happening all at once right now.

My meniscus repair was supposed to be a quick in-and-out situation, followed by a few days of actual rest. Instead, it’s looked more like rotating ice packs, occasionally upgrading to Ziploc bags filled with Opal ice when the swelling gets particularly aggressive, trying very hard not to answer work emails, and repeatedly reopening the same Amazon cart full of mermaid party supplies because I keep remembering additional things that apparently now matter deeply to me.

Temporary tattoos. Bubble wands. Foam crown craft kits. Custom cookies. The emotional support value of a properly themed goodie bag.

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, it hit me that Haisley turns three this month.

THREE.

And I don’t understand how that’s possible, because in my head she is still the tiny 36-week baby we were monitoring so closely in those early days, doing constant blood sugar checks as her little body adjusted after working overtime for mine.

And now she’s this whole person.

She’s fully daytime potty trained, which deserves recognition mostly because of Jimmy. That man approached potty training like he was coordinating a military operation. Schedules, timers, strategic pre-departure bathroom visits, backup outfits in the car.

Meanwhile, I was celebrating whenever nobody peed on the couch. Or pooped in a corner and confidently blamed a dog.

And now preschool starts in August, which still doesn’t feel entirely real.

I know this is how parenting works. I know children grow up. But there is something disorienting about realizing you are actively living through a phase you already know you’re going to miss.

Because I love this age.

I love that she talks nonstop and tells full stories now, even if half of them don’t make sense. I love that she has opinions about everything, from what she wears to which bubbles taste “more sparkly.” I love that she wants to help, even when helping makes things objectively harder. I love that she reaches for my hand without thinking and still wants to sit next to me, close enough that our legs touch, when she’s watching The Little Mermaid or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse for the ten-thousandth time.

I love that Jimmy is taking us for a Mother’s Day mani-pedi this weekend, and that she’s old enough for something like that to actually feel fun instead of logistically overwhelming. I can feel us stepping into a new kind of relationship with her, one where she’s not just our child, but someone we genuinely enjoy spending time with.

And at the exact same time, there’s this quiet awareness running underneath it all that every new phase is replacing the one before it. That this version of her, right now, won’t last either.

Maybe that’s why even small things have felt a little bigger lately.

Like trying to plan a birthday party without a functional RSVP system.

Jimmy takes Haisley to dance class every week because the schedule works better that way, but he usually waits in the car because he feels awkward being the only dad there while the moms sit together inside. Which honestly just makes me love him more, because he still takes her every week anyway since she loves it so much.

The downside is that afterward I receive fragmented secondhand updates like a suburban intelligence briefing.

“I think one of the girls likes mermaids.”

“Which girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did anyone RSVP?”

“I think verbally? Maybe?”

And it’s funny, but it’s also one of those moments where you realize how much of motherhood happens in spaces you don’t always naturally land in. Not because anyone has been unkind, but because life just looks different for different families.

Some days I feel completely confident in the way we’re doing things. Some days I wonder if everyone else has a rhythm I’m still trying to catch.

And then Haisley grabs my hand or asks me to sit with her, and it all recalibrates again.

So much of this season has been that. Constant recalibration.

Joy sitting right next to uncertainty. Gratitude tangled up with a little bit of fear.

And grief woven quietly through all of it.

Losing Melissa still shows up in the smallest, most ordinary moments. I’ll think of something funny Haisley said and instinctively reach for my phone before remembering there’s nowhere to send it. Or I’ll start mentally drafting a text asking her opinion on something completely normal, and for a split second my brain hasn’t caught up yet.

It’s not loud the way it used to be. It’s quieter now, but more present in everyday life.

At the same time, there is real peace in knowing she isn’t hurting anymore. That she isn’t suffering. That cancer no longer gets to take another thing from her.

Those two things exist together now. They just do.

And I think adulthood, in a lot of ways, is learning how to carry that. Not resolve it, not fix it, just hold it and keep moving forward.

Which is probably why the conversations Jimmy and I have been having lately about the future of our family feel both hopeful and complicated at the same time.

We would both genuinely love another child.

But we’re also trying to be honest about what that would mean for us. I’ll be 42 this summer. Jimmy turns 53 in February. My pregnancy with Haisley was high risk, and she arrived early after my placenta failed. Add insulin-dependent diabetes and the reality of Jimmy’s chronic pain, and it’s not a simple decision.

So we’ve talked about everything. IVF, surrogacy, foster care, adoption. And we’ve also talked about letting go of the idea that we get to fully control how that story unfolds.

For now, though, our life looks like this.

Ice packs melting on the coffee table. Ziploc bags full of Opal ice. Mermaid decorations slowly taking over the house. Preschool paperwork sitting on the counter. A little girl proudly announcing successful potty trips. Jimmy helping her pick nail polish colors for our Mother’s Day date.

Four years of marriage coming up at the end of the month, two days after her third birthday, which somehow feels both new and deeply rooted at the same time.

A heart that feels stretched in a hundred different directions, but full in a way I didn’t know was possible.

These days are exhausting. And ordinary. And sacred.

Haisley turns three in a few weeks.

And I still can’t believe I get to be her mom.

Meanwhile, if anyone has suggestions for third birthday presents for a child who somehow already has everything, please feel free to drop them in the comments below.