By Molly Flinkman
@molly_flinkman

The words came out of my mouth on a warm fall night last September. 

There I was, seated in a circle of mismatched lawn chairs with a group of moms, and, as moms do when they get together, we were talking about our kids. At some point in the conversation, one of the moms—the one in the thick of babies and toddlers—told us it all felt like so much. She wondered aloud if she’d ever sleep through the night again or leave in the middle of the day to grab a coffee by herself. There were nods and assurances of solidarity, and that’s when I said it.

“The crazy thing is that you’ll really miss this someday.”

I know. 

I KNOW.

I clocked a brief pause in the conversation and heard the words I had just spoken aloud—sprinkled into the air like pepper on a donut—and I felt the horror of being that mom. How many times had I heard a version of that phrase spoken to me when my own kids were little? How many times did I recoil at the sound of them? How many times did I want to ask, Can’t you see I am drowning over here? Isn’t there something better to say?

I apologized to that mom later in the night. I told her I remembered exactly how challenging the season of small kids could be, full stop. I offered no buts this time.

Because the thing is, I have not forgotten the deep depths of those days when my kids were tiny, and I wondered if I’d ever again come back up for air. I have not forgotten the days when I worked evening shifts to get a screaming toddler to stay in her bed and overnight shifts with an insatiable baby all while my husband, Jake, was putting in 90-hour work weeks of his own outside our home. None of it has escaped my memory. That time is seared there, forever, filed under “Most Hard Years,” somewhere in between “Jake Studies for Boards While His First Newborn Cries All Day at Home” and “The Baby of the Family Is Three.”

I get it, is what I’m trying to say. 

But also, can I tell you something crazy? I really do miss those days. 

I know. 

I KNOW.

It’s an honest-to-goodness miracle of miracles. The version of myself who ended every night flat on the floor never could have predicted this. I never could have dreamed that I would think about those days—the sleepless nights, the screaming kids, the endless hours—with a sense of actual fondness.

I read a book recently about a community of musical rats. (If there’s a good segway here, I’m not sure what it is.) And when these rats walk through their enchanted forest, they tap, tap, tap their fiddle bows on the trees to make sure they’re not dreaming. If the rats are awake, nothing happens to the tree. If it’s a dream, then the tree trunks shimmer.

I feel like one of those rats right now—tapping on everything around me, wondering if the passage of time is a dream. But in my case, the things that glitter are old. I’m tapping my bowstrings on the reality of my life, and it’s the shine of all the memories that nearly blinds me—even the ones I never thought I’d want to remember.

During The Month of the Screaming Newborn, I spent every day alone in a small apartment that overlooked the school where Jake sat alone in a quiet study room. Each afternoon, he would come home for a “quick lunch” which often ended up lasting closer to two hours because both his wife and his daughter were too hysterical for him to leave. 

tap, tap, tap

Sunlight streamed in those apartment windows every day. That’s what fills my mind when I remember those days, as well as a sense of warmth when I think about how Jake showed up for us even though his first board exams were on the line. I can still access all those feelings, and I also know now that I’m going to be fine—that we’re going to be fine. The memory has been painted over with a clear sheen. 

Or how about those nights when the toddler refused to stay in her bed? For at least an hour, I’d stand at her door and walk her back to bed again and again and again and again. We came to call her our jack-in-the-box sleeper. Though, instead of intermittent laughter, she would scream herself hoarse.

tap, tap, tap

There’s a certain simplicity to this scene when I look at it now. That screaming kid was mostly looking for attention and testing boundaries as all little kids are wont to do. Now, the things that pull my kids out of their beds at night are heavier. The fears and anxieties and intrusive thoughts require long conversations and a deep awareness that they are starting to remember everything I say. What felt dizzying then feels more straightforward now.

And what of the year when the baby of the family was three? I went most places ready to leave immediately because it was unclear what exactly might set him off. The sun was too hot. The water splashed his arm. I played “Hey Jude” in the car because I thought he might like it. It was hard to predict what might make him mad, and I felt like I couldn’t be present with the rest of the kids that year because I was so often helping him learn how to de-escalate his volatile emotions.

tap, tap, tap

When I look back on it, I can still clearly see the exhaustion and the frustration at another meltdown, and I also see the value of each small follow-up conversation or moment of connection that came in the wake of those storms. When that same kid does a 180 away from a total-body tailspin now, I am reminded of that year and how much all that one-on-one time with him mattered. There’s growth today that began back then. None of it was wasted—for any of us.

I don’t want to sugarcoat any of the Most Hard Years. It’s not that I see them as any less difficult today or even that I want to go back to them. It’s just that my view of those days and that time has softened. It feels like a version of amnesia except the memories are all still there; they’ve just been slightly rewired.

That once screaming newborn is about to walk into middle school where there will be fresh challenges and heartaches. The Baby of the Family Will Start Kindergarten, and I’ll miss him something fierce even though I’ll be able to leave my house for coffee, alone, pretty much any time I want.

I wonder what all this will look like ten years from now. How will I view it someday? How will The Current Hard Things be remembered? Will time eventually smooth the rough edges of today’s difficulties?

I have a feeling it will—that, somehow, I will learn to hold each moment dearly which is just such a crazy thing, don’t you think?

Molly Flinkman is a freelance writer from central Iowa where she lives with her husband, Jake, and their four kids. A lover of houseplants, good books, and (in a surprising turn of events) bright colors, she loves to write about how her faith intersects the very ordinary aspects of her life and hopes her words will encourage and support other women along the way. You can connect with Molly on Instagram, through her monthly newsletter, Twenty Somethings, or on her Substack, Common Stories.