Over-Dramatic

The house is very, very quiet right now - something I am completely unused to. Both of my boys are asleep. Or, I guess I should say all of my boys are asleep as even the dogs are off snoring somewhere.
We had a busy day yesterday and while I kinda wish I was snoozing too, I am still coming down after 9 hours of work. And my stomach is grumbling which means I'm going to have to get off of my butt and cook some dinner here soon.
There's no napping for this Mama.
I knew I would write this post sometime this week. I wasn't sure if I would wait until Saturday or write it earlier or even later...but I knew that it would have to wait until I could be in the quiet, where my thoughts could bleed freely without interruption.
Henry is turning three. I am going to have a THREE year old.
I know that it may seem that I'm being a bit over-dramatic about the whole ordeal, and I assure you that that's probably true. But over-dramatic is the only way I can think to describe the way that it feels to think about three entire years coming and going since this little boy entered our lives.
Three years of ups and downs, of learning what works and what doesn't.
Three years of wiping away tears and giving hugs and kisses and holding him tight and wishing time to stand still.
But it never does. Time does not stand still for anyone - no matter how over-dramatically you ask it to.
I look at him as he's laying so peacefully asleep, curled up in his Daddy's chair, and it's all I can do not to go scoop him up and sniff deep the familiar smell of boy - dirt, sweat, and still that hint of baby. I love it. And I know one day I'll miss it.
I wonder sometimes how mother's do it. I even had the thought earlier this week that God must have created mother's simply for the purpose of praying for their children until they learned to pray for themselves. And as silly as that may sound to some, I seriously fear the day that my grandmother passes on because I know that a great prayer warrior will no longer be praying for me.
Honestly though - how often do you think of your child? How often do tears run freely in both joy and worry and love and hope and fear? For me - it's often. And it's both wonderful and terrifying to know that my baby has grown up this much already. And it's both wonderful and terrifying to know that he has a lot of growing yet to do.
Three years. I cannot believe it. Three entire years.
I hope I have not failed him as a mother in any way. I hope that he will look back one day and know that I gave my entire self to him so that I could see him grow and become something great and wonderful. I hope he will always remember that I love him and that I break and bleed and smile and laugh and live in a completely different way since he was born.
I hope one day he has a three year-old, and that he breathes in a deep understanding of what it's like to sit staring at a tiny face - so perfect and round - and pour love and wishes for wonderful things, but break because of the swiftness of precious time rushing by.
I hope he has a wonderful third birthday, and I hope that I can keep it together. Every year seems harder to grasp. Every years seems to come and go faster than the last. I want to bottle this time and keep it trapped forever so that I never miss even the smallest of details.
Am I being over-dramatic? I don't think so... as far as I'm concerned, there's no such thing as an 'over-dramatic' love, especially when it comes to that of a mother's.