I remember looking in the mirror when I was little, pretending to hold my baby, hushing it to sleep and singing "mommy loves baby, mommy loves baby, and Jesus loves you too"—just like my grandma used to sing to me. So naturally, as I got older, I always wanted to be around kids. I'd even pinch their little toes just to make them cry so I could swoop in, console them, and feel like a real mom. I don't know why I thought that was a good strategy, but I was young, so you can't get too mad at me. (Don't worry—I don't do that anymore.)

That love of motherhood has always been rooted so deeply in my soul, but it wasn't awakened until I took that first pregnancy test as a "practice test" just to try it out—and was SHOCKED when it was positive.

When I was pregnant with my first, I kept having these dreams that I'd left him somewhere—at the grocery store, in the car, just completely forgotten about him. I'd wake up in a total panic, heart racing, only to realize I was still pregnant and he was right there with me. I'd drift back to sleep holding my stomach, wishing he was already in my arms.

And then he arrived, and holy cow, those dreams became very real, very fast. Tiny fingers, little squeals, the whole deal. Before I knew it, one became two, then three, then four. And every single day, I'm reminded just how fast it's all going.