My twins are 6 months old. They are the quintessential marshmallow babies with rolls upon rolls in their healthy little legs. They are eating an array of mashed up steamed veggies that include spinach, green beans, carrots, and squash. They are ravenous eaters, and I am a proud mommy. I am proud of the choices I have made for my kids and I am proud that they are gobbling up all this healthy goodness. A sweet mom of two kids, 2 and 4, passes me in the restaurant. “Oh, your kids are adorable!” She exclaims. “And what good eaters! Oh, my kids use to eat everything too. But wait until they hit toddlerhood! They’ll be fighting you over every last pea you put on their plate, and then all they’ll eat is mac n’ cheese!” she chuckles and passes on by.

My twins are 12 months old. We are out shopping for the holidays. They sit in their stroller and stare at the crowds of people while munching on raisins. “Your kids are so well-behaved! Just wait until they hit their terrible two’s! Oh, what a nightmare!”

My twins are 2 years old. We are at the grocery, and they happily hold boxes of crackers I hand to them or bottles of condiments. We are at the cash register. “How old are your kids? Two? Oh my, twins! Just wait until they are three, they won’t be good listeners anymore!”

My twins are 4 years old and my baby girl is 13 months old. We venture out as a family on a Friday night to the local pizzeria. My twins giggle and pass toys back and forth across the table, and my little girl stares at the people at other tables, then stares and babbles at her siblings. “Your kids are so sweet! Get in all the family time you can now, because when they’re older, they won’t want to have pizza with you on a Friday night anymore!”

My 4-year-old girl and I go out for a mommy-daughter date. I introduce her to shopping for her own things for the first time. She is in awe of all the little girl jewelry at the jewelry store. “Your daughter is so sweet! Wait until she’s a teenager! You’ll be singing a different tune then!”

Here is the thing. I know you have good intentions, but your anticipation of what horrible things I am to expect is killing me. Maybe in the years to come my kids will not want to spend a Friday night with me. Maybe my daughters will be a handful as teenagers. (I can hear it now, “you have TWO daughters! Oh boy! Just you wait! They are awful!) But right now, I am a mom of three young kids, proud of how I am raising them and proud of the kids they are. I am enjoying them when they are good eaters, I am sappily admiring them when they are adorable and well behaved. I am not preparing yet for puberty. I am not preparing yet for Friday nights when all the kids are out with friends and I am hopeful they will be home by curfew. I am sure that time will come, but the last thing I am thinking about when my kids are giggling over my silly only-funny-to-four-year-olds joke is how this won’t be funny anymore when they are 10 or 15 or 23.

I understand that I am beyond lucky having three healthy kids. Don’t get me wrong, we have our moments, but for the most part, we are enjoying every milestone as it comes.  I know that every child and every mother’s experience is different and unique. I appreciate you reaching out to me, trying to connect with me, reminiscing of a “simpler time” with your own kids. But please allow me to enjoy my kids for who they are right this minute and maybe at another time, you can share your own experiences of what came after this stage for you and your kids. But not right now.

Today is the last day my twins are four. I wrote them each a letter on this last day of being four. Here is my letter to my son.

Dear Max,

Today is the last day you are four years old. The thought of you turning five fills me with pride, fills me with excitement, and anticipation. There is a small part of me that feels bitter sweet, realizing that you have left everything baby and toddler behind you, but mostly, I can’t wait for what is to come. I say this not for generic reasons, but I say this because of who you are becoming.

You, my four-year-old boy, are one of a kind. Yes, I say that because I am your mother and all mothers think their boys are one of a kind, but I say that because I know, like the back of my hand, who you are. You are sensitive, you have a kind heart, you have a moral conscience, you want to be good, you wholeheartedly love and care about your sisters, your grandparents, your friends, your mom and dad. You are aware and considerate of the company you are in, and you are observant and have a ridiculous memory for last summer’s vacation, last week’s Vikings game, and that time we went out for pizza and your baby sister didn’t want to eat her peas.

You are my sensitive boy that wants to hug me just a minute longer before you go to bed. You startle me in the still, dark hallway at 6 in the morning before I leave for work, “You are my favorite mommy in the whole world.” Your face falls with devastation when you get in trouble for something you know you shouldn’t have been doing. You fight back tears welling in your eyes when you are disappointed and your expectations have not been met. You can’t help but let out that pure joyous giggle when you learn about a surprise that is to come your way.

You are dedicated and responsible, which are things I am not so sure can be taught entirely. This past Friday, you had your holiday program, and you were sick and vomited on stage, then proceeded to sing and dance for an hour-long program, including starring as Mr. Turkey in Hello Mr. Turkey. And you did so, unfazed, singing and dancing in a pile of your own vomit. Unbelievable. Your perseverance is unparalleled.

You are so smart. You remember scores to football games from three weeks ago. You memorize the most obscure dinosaur species from your big book of dinosaurs. You can add. You can read. You are inquisitive and asked your dad the other night, “what was the first thing that lived on earth?” You use logic and reasoning in ways I had no idea a four year old could do.

You are gentle. You adore your baby sister and want her hugs and kisses. You watch out for your twin sister and protectively put your arm around her when you are both timid in a new situation. You tell her how she hurts your feelings when she is sad.

You love football, making crafts, playing board and card games—your new favorite is checkers. You love being outdoors, you love adventure, you love books. You love dinosaurs, superheroes, and robots.  You love to eat.

You are confident. You are sensitive. You are kind. You are smart. Your smile is infectious. Your dimples are to die for. You have the sweetest words, and I couldn’t ask for a better son.

To you, my four year-old son, on the day before your turn five. Thank you for giving us these five wonderful years with you and for giving us so much to look forward to as we watch you grow. You are my favorite little boy and I am so lucky and thankful to have you as my son.

All the love in the world for you, my baby Max.

Your mom and biggest fan forever and always.

Today is the last day my twins are four.  I wrote them each a letter on this last day of being four.  Here is my letter to my daughter.

Dear Sofia,

Before I had you, I always daydreamed about having a little girl.  A girl to adore, a girl I would love, and a girl who would become my best friend. When you came into the world, oh, you did not disappoint. You were exactly everything I ever wanted in every one of my daydreams and everything I wanted that I didn’t even know I wanted. You had pink, flushed cheeks, and a smile to melt away every worry in the world. You have come into your own; you are the girl of my dreams.

You are everything I ever imagined and so much more than that. Since the moment you were born, you have always been laid back and happy. Your giggles fill the room and infect every person around you. You smile as if happiness is at the core of everything that you are; I could just stay in your glow of giddiness and effortless laughter forever.

I love to watch you when you don’t know I am watching. Your imagination runs wild, and your dolls and princesses come to life in your hands. You act out their magical lives and I listen to your animated voice narrate the stories that emerge at your fingertips. Your creativity unleashes, and I am amazed by you. I watch you as you emphatically direct your own play of characters, as the plot thickens. I love that you can create a world in your mind and nourish it with your almost five years of experience.

You love to color. Your most asked questions is, “Can I color?”  I don’t know any other four year old that can sit there for hours, surrounded by crayons, markers, and colored pencils and color picture after picture with such meticulous attention. You’ve started drawing this last year, and your dad and I are seriously in awe of the things you can draw.

Last week was your holiday program. You sang a duet about Hanukah, and your dad and I just couldn’t be prouder. You have a way about you, that smile, that awareness of being a performer, it is a talent that cannot be taught.

In a million ways, you remind me of me. I’m pretty sure you are just a mini mold of me. I hope, when you are older, this is not insulting. I just see so much of me in you. I remember the day you were born, your dad holding you, and having it feel so surreal because I felt like he was holding a mini baby version of me.

I have so much hope and anticipation for you and what lies ahead. I know that you will be loved by everyone that meets you. You are easy going, kind, so lovable, sweet, positive, and your love of laughter is too infectious not to want to be around. You love your family and have a selflessness about you that makes you unique from other four year olds.

You love “everything pretty” as you put it, which includes tutus, skirts, dresses, flowers, pink, glitter, sparkles, tiaras, heels, princesses, ballerinas, fairy wings, jewelry. You squeal with delight when your baby sister has on something adorable, and say, “you are soooo cute!!!!” You do a super, super adorable shy tilt of the head and smile when someone tells you you look beautiful. You love to sing and dance.  You usually can’t be bothered to wear anything that isn’t super girly. You are appalled at the thought of having a pajama day, even when you are sick.

You are brave, and even when things are scary, you can handle them. You try to put on a brave face, even when I can see the emotion in your eyes. You know when your brother is upset and needs to have his way, and you let him have his way and are nurturing and compromising in that way. Yet, you are decisive and unfaltering in your choices. I love this about you.

You love your “pretty things” but are not consumed by materialism; last Christmas, when we asked you over and over what you wanted, unlike the usual laundry list of things other kids may ask for, your list consisted of one thing, “Jasmine.”  You have self-control.  If you eat cake, you will stop when you are done, even if that means leaving on your plate a mound of frosting.

Sofia. You are beautiful beyond words. Under the glitter, tutus, pink, and heels, what I see is a beautiful soul filled with laughter, freeness, creativity, imagination, talent, strength, and a wonderful energy. I can’t wait to see what you become and how you flourish in your element.

You are my every daydream come true. Thank you for letting me watch the wonder that is the Sofia Show unfold. I love you more than anything and will always be here to cheer you on as you go down this journey. You tell me you want to be a chef and a doctor like mommy, but whatever you decide, I’ll be here to support .

Every night, I tell you I love you to the moon and back, and you tell me, “I love you more than that.” Then I tell you I love you more than that, then you tell me you love me more than that, and on and on we fight.

So let me just tell you, I love you more than any “more than that” times infinity and beyond. No matter what, no matter where, no matter when. I love you more than that.

Your best friend, biggest fan, and mom always and forever and more than that.

With four year-old twins, I have embraced the saying “expect the unexpected” and taken the challenge one step farther and come to live by the motto, “adapt to the unexpected.”

The unexpected uncovers, bit-by-bit, who my children are becoming.  The unexpected teaches me to grow and adapt just as my kids do.  The unexpected is an opportunity for me to teach my kids by example, and last night, I learned, for them to teach me by example.

Last night, I sat in the audience with fellow parents, grandparents, and other superfans of our pre-schoolers as they entertained us with an hour long holiday program complete with song, choreographed dance, and utter, unparalleled adorableness.

We oohed and aaahed and laughed heartily in delight, smartphones in hand, snapping away, waving emphatically at our hearts standing bravely on that bright stage, staring right back at us.

They sang and swayed to songs about Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, the first Indian tribes, and Christmas.  They sang in French, in Spanish, with sign language.

I beamed as my four year-old daughter courageously stood in front of the microphone, stage center, held the menorah, and belted out her duet about the eight days of Hanukkah and the star of David.

I giggled and smiled from ear-to-ear as my four year-old son starred as Mr. Turkey in the hit song, “Hello Mr. Turkey.”

These preschoolers.  They nailed it.  We were a room of overjoyed, over emphatic, over proud parents to say the least.

After the performance, complete with standing ovation, I hurried up the stage to hug my amazing four year-olds.  My daughter glowed and smiled that win-you-over-a-million-times smile she has trademarked.  She swayed from side to side, the sequins on her dress shimmering under the lights.

My son broke into a huge grin when he saw me, but he appeared slightly pale, slightly run down.  I went to embrace my sweet, tired Mr. Turkey and shower him with my mom pride.  He stuck out his right sleeve.  It was covered in vomit.  He pointed down at the ground where he had been standing for the duration of the performance, and there it was.  A big pile of (I won’t use any descriptors) vomit.

I came to learn that thirty seconds before the curtains opened on this adorable class of preschoolers, my sweet boy had released the substantial contents of his stomach (he’s not a light eater, let’s put it that way) onto the top bleachers, right where he was standing.  He then wiped his mouth with his crisp white button down shirt sleeve, and proceeded through his well-rehearsed one hour performance about the seven days of Kwanzaa, lighting the menorah, jingle bell rock, signing “rainbow” and “friends”, and fearlessly leading the other preschoolers while holding a full tail of turkey feathers in his feature debut in “Hello Mr. Turkey.”

I had watched him, at times with a slight tilt of the head, wondering why he looked slightly tired and slightly pale.

My four year-old, feeling miserable, literally standing in a pile of his own vomit, had kept on keeping on.  Unfazed.  Unmoved by his own stomach contents.  He had adapted to the unexpected and literally sang and danced around it, over it, and on top of it.

My Mr. Turkey, at four years old, had shown me perseverance and the ultimate adapting to the unexpected by example.  Keep on keeping on.  And you can nail it too–feathers in hand, waddle to your walk, vomit on your sleeve and under your boots.  Truly, whatever it may be.