t had already been an exasperating supermarket trip when I finally found myself at the finish line - I mean, checkout line. My 1-year-old was in the cart crying with the placate cookie smeared all over his face. My 2 1⁄2-year-old kleptomaniac was hiding a chocolate bar in his jacket. And I, newly pregnant yet again, felt like I was about to hurl.

Then came the singsong voice of the perfectly-coiffed woman wearing fashionable yoga clothes in the line next to me... “They’re adorable! Enjoy it. Oh, I remember when mine were that little. It goes so fast!”

What I wanted to say: "How fast?"

What I did say: “I know, but sometimes it’s just so hard.” And then I started to cry. Right there in front of Fancy Yoga Lady. It wasn’t going fast at all. Every day was filled with seemingly endless hours of the all-too-familiar calamities of raising babies. And on top of all that suffering, I was supposed to enjoy it?

It goes so fast. I had heard that refrain too many times before: when I started college, when I was a fancy-free twenty-something living in the big city, and then again when I first got married. People who have been there are only too eager to impart their wisdom to those who are just getting there.

And therein lies the problem.

I believe that truly enjoying a certain romantic or exciting or rewarding portion of one’s life requires no longer being in the midst of that portion of life. Because while you’re in it, it’s just... life. Life with the requisite ups and downs, brilliant days and nightmare days. Hindsight really is 20/20.

The truth is that though the days of raising babies are slow, the years are fast. And while it’s impossible to enjoy cleaning up vomit and perfecting the art of rectal thermometer insertion, it is necessary to relish the truly magnificent moments - to try and enjoy it as much as possible. To not say, “I have to,” but to say, “I get to.” And to stop and smell the roses whenever you can - even if they are covered in spit-up.