This week started with a worm.

Not a metaphorical worm.

A real worm.

Pulled dramatically from the dirt by two very excited homeschoolers who immediately stopped all gardening operations to examine it like it was the final specimen in a middle school science fair.

There were theories.

There were debates.

There were several whispered discussions about whether worms have feelings.

And of course, there was a plan to return the next day and check on it to make sure it was still alive and thriving in its worm career.

Which is how our garden project temporarily became a wildlife research expedition.

Because that’s how homeschooling with little kids works.

You start planting tomatoes.

You end up studying earthworms.

But honestly, I wouldn’t trade it.

This week we planted flowers.

We started building our vegetable garden.

The girls helped pull weeds and carry soil like very small farmers who were extremely proud of their contributions.

They even helped mow the lawn.

Which also meant helping me clean up the trash situation caused by Justin forgetting to roll the cans to the curb.

Again.

If you ever want to build character in children, I highly recommend letting them help clean up someone else’s trash mistake.

It’s very educational.

Somewhere between the worms, the weeds, the garden beds, and the garbage bags, I had one of those quiet mom realizations.

The kind that sneaks up on you while you’re not paying attention.

They’re growing up.

Not in the dramatic teenage way.

In the quiet way.

The way that slowly shifts your house without you noticing.

Lynnlee has started researching things now.

And when I say researching, I mean fact-checking like a tiny investigative journalist.

She’ll ask a question, look something up, then come back later and say something like,

“Well that source said this… but another one said something different.”

Which means I now live with a six-year-old who cross-references information before accepting it as truth.

Frankly, that’s better journalism than half the internet.

At the same time, Harper is living her best pretend-play life.

Barbies.

Stories.

Characters.

Imagination everywhere.

And the irony of it all makes me laugh and ache a little at the same time.

For years Lynnlee begged for a baby sister.

Not just any sister.

A Barbie-playing partner.

She wanted someone to build stories with.

Someone to share that magical little world with.

Now Harper is finally old enough to love Barbies.

And Lynnlee?

She’s mostly outgrown them.

She’ll still play sometimes.

But she’s halfway into bigger interests now.

Books.

Music.

Research projects apparently.

Watching that shift feels a little like watching the seasons change.

Not sad exactly.

Just noticeable.

Because the strange thing about motherhood is that the big milestones never hit you as hard as the quiet ones.

First steps.

First words.

First day of school.

Those are obvious.

But the moments that sneak up on you are the ones in between.

The moment they start helping with real work instead of just making a mess next to you.

The moment they sit down at the piano and practice because they want to.

Both girls have been doing that lately.

Just sitting down and playing.

Not because I asked.

Not because they have to.

Just because learning something new still feels magical to them.

And somewhere between planting flowers, studying worms, mowing grass, and picking up forgotten trash bags…

I realized they’re standing in that strange middle place.

They’re still little.

But not as little as they used to be.

They want independence.

But they still want to soak up every piece of knowledge you can give them.

They want to try things on their own.

But they still want you close enough to watch.

It’s a strange season.

But it’s also one of the best ones.

Because one day they won’t stop gardening to investigate worms.

They won’t ask whether worms have feelings.

They won’t sit down at the piano with that fearless joy that kids have before the world teaches them to worry about being good at something.

One day they’ll just know things.

They’ll be busy with their own lives.

Their own responsibilities.

Their own gardens to grow.

But if I’m lucky…

Maybe they’ll still come tell me what they discovered.

Even if it’s not about worms.