“Cherish every moment, it goes so fast.” If I had got a euro for every time I’d heard that, I’d be building a swimming pool in my back garden. And when I hadn’t slept properly for months and was fed up with milky spit-up down my back and mashed banana in my best leather handbag, the saying ranked very highly indeed on the irritometer.

But on a good day, and especially after my second child was born, the cliché sometimes elicited a pang of regret. Because time does rush childhood away.

Chubby cheeks start slimming down, faces change, fat little legs walk then run, and after that, they are off, on an irresistible trajectory away from us that will go on for the next 20 years and more.

My children are two and five. And in the eye of the storms that are my days, these are the little moments that I freeze-frame and try to commit to memory. When they’re all grown up, these are the 23 things I’m going to miss.

Those tiny little speech defects, like ‘lello’ and ‘loghurt’ (‘yellow’ and ‘yoghurt’) or Cinderbrella and pajimjams (pyjamas).

The boundless delight that chocolate-coated sunflower seeds on top of a loghurt can bring.

Their insults: “You’re an eyeball head.”

A warm, little body with frozen feet creeping into my bed at 6.30am (any earlier is a no-no).

The way their faces go completely still as they imagine the magic of fairies, princesses and the Christmas elf.

Watching my son master new skills that we can do together, such as body boarding the same wave, riding a two-wheeler bike, playing football and building Lego with the instructions. I’m reliving my own childhood.

Listening to them talking to each other at night before they go to sleep. They sing snatches of songs including “Happy Birthday Malcolm” (we don’t know a Malcolm). When my son falls asleep mid-conversation, my daughter asks plaintively, “Where’s Callum gone?”

These are the little moments that I freeze-frame and tryto commit to memory

Their complete absorption in drawing as they produce fantastical crayon creatures.

That dirty, old belly-laugh that my son has, so easily invoked by tickling, cartoons, his sister and the sock game (try it – you lie on your back and try to pull each others’ socks off without getting up).

Their unbridled glee when instead of dismantling the fort of cushions and duvets, I just jump in and agree to be a pirate.

How a nest of wild chicken eggs can entertain them for an hour and a patch of wet sand beats the toy box every afternoon.

The anticipation and trepid-ation they are both feeling about going to new schools.

Playing spot the family resemblance in their fluid little faces.

The serious conversations about whether trolls are wholly evil and the aerial abilities of fairies.

The way my son’s hair reflects the sunlight on a bright day.

Their bluntness; a blessing and a curse. “This is boring, I want to go home” (of a pricey and hard-to-arrange boat trip just for them).

Them being small enough to pick up and cuddle whole.

Their incredible capacity to bounce back from defeats, scoldings, fights and fears.

Watching them running free on a long beach with sandy legs and a stick to poke things with.

How they make the mundane wondrous. Planting a seed or watering a flower really is fantastic if you do it with a child.

The obvious physical relief my tired daughter takes in a hug.

The big relax at the end of the day, as we read about crazy cats, wicked witches and pigeons driving a bus.

Holding a little pudgy hand. And not wanting to let go.