How old will my children be, when the simple fact of my presence will no longer be enough to bring them comfort in the middle of the night?
When will they grow self-conscious about their bodies? When will we lose that blessed innocence that lets me bathe them, change them, "keep them company" while they go potty (Raisin loves that -- I can't say it's my favorite hobby, but I appreciate the trust)?
When will they stop thinking that I am funny? My humor repertoire consists mainly of zerberts on bellies and knock-knock jokes, but my kids laugh like I'm their pick on Last Comic Standing.
How many more years before my stock of wisdom is insufficient? Already Raisin is unsatisfied with the answers we provide -- needing backup from a teacher or a grandparent. How long before she doesn't even ask us anymore?
How long before my babies aren't babies anymore? How long do I have?