People were always telling me when I had my daughter, 'enjoy it, it goes so fast.'
But time seemed to stand still with my first baby. Sometimes minutes felt like hours, hours like days as I tried to make the adjustment from just being me to being someone's mum.
But with my son, it feels like I've only just started to get my head round the fact I have two children and he's already rolling over, and ready to start weaning.
I saw a woman in a cafe today with a baby who must have been days old. He was asleep on his mum's chest; his legs curled under him, frog-like, as he would have been in the womb. I looked at his tiny, squashed-up red face resting on his mother's shoulder and I had a totally unexpected, huge, shuddering hormone rush.
The milk gushed into my boobs at 100 miles an hour and I burst into shoulder-shaking sobs.
I ugly cried onto the top of my son's head as it dawned on me that my children will never be that little again.
Now, I don't want to romanticise my pregnancies. I was grumpy throughout both, beyond tired with my daughter and a walking advert for Gaviscon with my son.
But there were amazing moments as well.
That feeling that you were never alone.
That you were carrying around your buddy. That you could talk out loud and there was a titchy person who could hear and recognise your voice. The first time you hear a heart beat, the first flutter that definitely isn't wind. Seeing your stomach change shape when you lie down and a rogue hand or foot pushes against your taut belly.
I want to stop time.
To just stare at my children. To memorise their faces, how they look right now. Today.
To sniff them, properly inhale the smell of the top of their heads while they both still smell like little children.
Because I've been walking around thinking I have a tiny baby.
To my surprise, I find I have a five-month old son.