My baby turns five tomorrow.

I just got back from his little birthday party at school. I brought juice boxes and ice cream, Avengers napkins and Spiderman balloons, and Ezra was tickled pink. I stuck five long, colorful birthday candles into his little plastic cup of ice cream and sang Happy Birthday with all his friends. Then I watched him pass out his goody bags to his buddies, so proud in his little blue polo shirt and gray uniform shorts. I took pictures of him with his teachers, and they took a picture of us. Before I left his classroom, he gave me a hug that said more than a million thank yous, his arms tight around my neck in an embrace that lasts twice as long as a usual Ezra hug.

I cried all the way home.

Time does funny things to you when you’re a mother. It drags on through late night feedings and fevers, through long afternoons when everyone’s waiting for daddy to get home. It speeds through the holidays and birthdays, the cozy days of family routine. Time makes you emotional and antsy, nostalgic and impatient, all depending on the day or the phase we’re going through at the moment.

But bring me to a birthday, and I’ll always say that time is going too fast. I look at my son and wonder how he is five, how he is in school, passing out treats to his friends, so grown-up and handling his own little life outside the walls of our home. I look at this little miracle walking around in front of me and still wonder: how did you come to be? How is it possible that you are mine?

Being a mother feels strange and new to me all the time, because my children are constantly growing and changing, on to the next thing. I tell my daughter regularly, “You can stop growing now. That’s enough.” To which she smiles at me in an incredibly perceptive way for a seven and a half year old, knowing I’m having a “moment” and indulges me with an extra squeeze. She’s got a little bit of mother in her already.

I don’t know if my husband and I will have any more children. It’s something I pray about all the time. Are we done? Or is there another on the way? Is this it? Is this the last five year old party I’ll have? Is this the last naptime and Sesame Street and plastic sippy cup? I try to peer into the future, unable to let go of the idea of having another child, unable to say, “Let’s try again!”

Being in this place and coming to a benchmark like five years old has me feeling sad, has me wondering and questioning and fearing, “Is this it?” So I sit here with a glass of wine, biting my lip, and whilst trying-to-be brave, listing things I’m grateful for right now:

1. My beautiful son. I’m so thankful for my Ezra, Ezzie, Mr. Ezra Pants, Tank, SpiderTank, Ez Fez, Underwear Man!, E-Z, Buzz, boy of a million nicknames. How do you say thank you when God gives you a son, a human who loves you unconditionally and calls you “mom,” and comes in every single morning, first thing, to cuddle? Who yells down the stairs every night after I tuck him in, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite! or the sharks! or the Ninja Turtles! or the spiders! or the snakes! or the Hulk! or the….” Who still hugs me in front of his classmates, is gleeful when I draw him my funny stick figure superheroes?

2. The opportunity to be a mother. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and probably the hardest thing I’ll ever do. It’s knocked me over a million times, been the impetus for many long, hot baths, and taught me more about love than anything else. The whole thing is a big messy miracle. Great gobs of grace and snot and laundry and sweet, sweet baby cheeks.

3. Time. It’s ticking, always passing. But it’s what we have, however long, and it’s a gift. The more I try to peer into the future, the more I learn the wisdom of staying right here, in the present. Celebrating the moments or just trying to breathe through them, one at a time. Right here is where I learn to sit still in the palm of God’s hand, sheltered by his love, comforted by his control. The intricacies of his timing are beyond my understanding, but looking back on the last five years, I see the perfection in the way his hand moves.