My relationship with my friends who are moms to young children has changed over the years as their families have grown but it's not worsened. It just means we've adapted our ability to have in-depth conversations amidst noise and sometimes seemingly chaos. Organized chaos, that is.
It means I sit on the toilet while Kristin gives five-month-old Ben his night-time bath. And we talk.
It means Jaclyn and I just talk a little louder over the obnoxiously loud motor that drives the automatic Winnie the Pooh bubble-blower. And we pause occasionally to laugh with two-year-old Norah when she sticks her face in the bubbles.
It means Sarah and I's conversation is post-poned due to the birthday kids (Luke, 4 and Norah, 2) opening their presents.
It means Brooke and I still watch our marathon of Snapped and discuss how stupid some of those women are, while I'm feeding two-week-old Vinn and she's folding a load of laundry.
It means that Greg, Kristin, Greg's mom and I get into a lengthy conversation about nearly-three-year-old Cate's bedtime routine and what songs she wants sung to her.
It means that my conversation with Sarah is interrupted to say "yes" to Malaika who wants me to go swing with her.
It means that Daniel, Kayla and I talk about their recent trip to Kenya with three-and-a-half year old Malaika's input. And pausing to get her food out of the microwave for her.
It means before I hug Kristin, I hug Cate. And kiss Ben.
It means I hear breathless stories from Luke and quiet words from Norah before I can greet their mother.
It means our trips to Wal-Mart involve just as much time getting everyone out of the vehicle (I'll grab the stroller; you get the baby) as it does actually shopping.
It means a lot of conversation happens over the dishwasher, the playroom, the lunch table, and the outside playhouse.
It means hanging up the phone when someone bumps their head or scrapes their knee or it's mealtime.
It means my life is fuller and richer because I have friends who are moms.