Still.

He's almost five. He can buckle his own seat belt but still waits for my hand to walk across a parking lot. He mixes his own macaroni and cheese and writes own name,  but he looks so small when I drop him off at school. He can read some words on his own, but his head still fits snugly on my chest during story time.  He brushes his own teeth and washes his own face, but still waits for me to tuck him in each night. He still talks quietly and cries loudly. He still likes me to sing him a lullaby. I can still rub his forehead lightly to ease him to sleep.

Most days he's almost 5, but some days, if I glance at him just right I can still picture the way his eyelashes used to flutter before he drifted of to sleep in my arms.

She's two and a half. She can count to fifty and sing her ABCs, but my favorite word out of her mouth is still, "Mama." Her hair fits with ease into a pony tail, but she still has the wispy curls I used to run my fingers through as I rocked her to sleep. She's still content and happy and independent. She can pull on her own PJ pants, but her little legs still fit perfectly around my body when I carry her off to bed. She no longer cries out for me in the middle of the night, but she still babbles my name as she drifts off to sleep.

Most days she's two and a half, but some days, if I hold her just right, I can still feel the way she fit in my arms as I nursed her to sleep.

He's almost five, she's two and a half. Neither of them are still babies, but they'll always be mine.