I get it now!

My mom used to say, “Woojie Rebecca, five years old!”  (Woojie is my family nickname – just for clarity)  She’d say it in the sweetest sing-song voice, wistfully wishing she could freeze time. She'd talk about how she wished I were five again—how she'd take just one more day if she could.

As a daughter, I always thought it was a little strange.

While it felt sweet and comforting, I secretly chalked it up to my mom's inability to cope with growing older, with change, with life moving forward. My sister and I would talk about how odd it was that she actually wanted us to be little again.

Didn't she enjoy us now?

I had a great relationship with her. Didn't she like that? Was she someone who got stuck in moments and couldn't find joy in what came next?

I've spent much of my life quietly criticizing my mom's tendency to get hung up on things, and I filed this one away under "regrets."

Then I became a parent.

My children are now 20, 18, and 15, and I can barely watch videos of them as toddlers without crying. Those early years completely undo me. Shockingly, I find myself wishing I could go back. Wishing for a do-over.

It's not because I have huge regrets. Sure, I have a few. I've become a smarter parent over the years, and there are mistakes I'd love the chance to correct. But overall, I think my kids are pretty great.

And still, I wish I could go back.

I wish I could spend one more day snuggling with my diaper-clad toddler who always stuck his hand down my shirt.

I wish I could hear 14-month-old Henry proudly announce, “Henny cool!” before attempting some random trick.

I wish I could watch my blue-eyed Benji radiate his old soul through those giant eyes while carrying Batman around and somehow making the whole world happier.

I wish I could go back to the days when the boys looked at their baby sister with complete adoration and would do absolutely anything to make her smile.

I wish I could hear their tiny voices again. I wish I could see the way they looked at me.

I was their world.

I knew everything they did. Everywhere they went. We were so connected that Henry once tried to kick down a door just to get to me.

Now they're teenagers.

And there's another truth I've only recently realized: I miss that version of me, too.

I loved the mom I was then. Not because I was perfect—I certainly wasn't—but because I was so completely woven into their world. My days revolved around scraped knees, snack requests, bedtime stories, and tiny hands reaching for mine. There was something beautifully simple about being needed in that way.

Sometimes I wonder which version of me they'll remember. Will they remember the tired mom packing lunches and wiping noses? The referee breaking up arguments? The chauffeur, the cheerleader, the homework nag? Or will they simply remember that I was there?

Maybe that's part of why those years pull at my heart. I'm not just remembering who they were—I'm remembering who I was, too.

Some days I have no idea what they're thinking—other than "Oh my God, Mom," whenever I open my mouth.

Now everything I say, do, or ask is met with at least a little resistance.

Now they don't share every thought or every moment.

Now I've learned to appreciate the little opportunities for connection. I've learned to create small ways to spend time together. I've learned that food is often the fastest path to conversation.

And now, I look up at them instead of down.

Yet I know something else, too.

In a few years, I'll probably look back at this season and wish I could return here as well.

Maybe not with the same overwhelming longing I feel for their toddler years—because, let's be honest, teenagers are hard—but as much as I already dread launching them into the real world, I know there will come a day when I'd happily hear one more exasperated, "Oh my God, Mom!"

The truth is, I don't want my kids to think that I'm stuck. 

There were parts of my mom that got stuck, and honestly, sometimes it's easier to stay there than it is to seek out joy in what's happening right now.

I want to be someone who actively looks for joy. I want to surround myself with it. I want to give myself every opportunity for a smile, a memory, or a happy thought throughout the day.

One thing that helps me through the harder moments with my kids is imagining them as their toddler selves. Not because I wish that's still who they were, but because it reminds me of the bond we've always shared.

It's hard to stay angry at a teenager when you're looking at their toddler face.

So, I keep those photos on my phone—the ones that melt my heart. The ones that take me back. The ones that can't help but make me smile.

And when I'm staring at piles of dirty socks shoved into the couch cushions, a mountain of cups in their room or hearing yet another "It wasn't me," I pull out a little joy and let myself travel back for a moment.

Back to when they were five.

I get it now.