Sometimes, I am so ready for my children to grow up so that trips we take together can be bigger and more frequent.

I look forward to a time when the list of stuff we have to pack (diapers, wipes, carseats, toys, books, blankets, strollers, carriers, travel potties…) is not overwhelmingly long.

When the anticipation of hours in a car or plane doesn’t fill me with anxiety.

I’m eager to get to a point in their lives when nap times and bedtimes don’t have to be strategically planned and executed for the sake of everyone’s sleep.

I’ll be relieved when poop and pee accidents aren’t a concern, and going to the bathroom isn’t an ordeal.

When I’m no longer met with the traumatizing possibility of losing a toddler because I took my eye off of her for 5 minutes. And when, one day, the memory of that happening evolves into just another inside story we can all laugh about.

I dream of the day when the four of us can go hiking and no one needs to be carried, exhausted, the last half mile back to the car.

It’ll be so nice when dining out looks more like playful banter in between bites of food I actually have the chance to savor and enjoy, than an embarrassing amount of mess made by children who can’t sit still.

When a fun family activity is not dampened by meltdowns and temper tantrums for reasons completely unknown.

Mothers of grown-up kids love to remind me that I’m going to miss this phase, difficult and tiring though it may be. And as annoying as it is to hear that piece of wisdom for the thousandth time, I know they’re right.

I will always cherish the sweet childhood phase of collecting rocks, running around naked, and thinking every day of vacation is “the best day ever.”

I’ll for sure miss the awe and excitement on my kids’ faces when they see a campfire lit, a hot tub fill with bubbles, or roasted marshmallow ooze out of a hastily assembled s’more. The pure bliss that comes from feeling Ayla’s head on my shoulder and her small hand stroking my back as I carry her in my arms.

I’ll remember the pride I felt as my son fearlessly traversed a rocky trail, jumping and climbing his way to the riverbed all on his own. The swell of my heart when they sang duets in the car, gave each other good night kisses, or delighted in the same simple joys.

I’ll probably want it all back, too.

That’s the paradox of parenthood, I suppose: While I wish to capture forever the innocence and sweetness of this age, I also long for the relationship we will one day have—a relationship that comes with maturity and reason. As much as I love my babies, I can’t wait to get to know them 10 or 20 years from now.

So, yes, I’m guilty of wanting my kids to grow up so we can take more trips. Have engaging conversations. Go on bigger adventures. Experience an even deeper connection.

Truth be told, there are some weeks that I cannot wait. Whether my impatience is ill-advised or naive, I’m not sure; but it doesn’t change how I feel.

We’re not guaranteed tomorrow, I know. And this time with littles is shorter than I can even fathom. I don’t want to look back on these days and regret wishing away the present, but I think it’s okay to be excited about the future.

And I’m excited, damn it.

Because if my relationships with my own parents and brothers is any indication of what our young family can grow into, I’m convinced that the best is yet to come.