Just beautiful. Yes, it happens just this way.

I Am Not Old by Anonymous

I am not old.
In the late morning,
cool drizzle outside,
Sitting on my bed,
good to be inside.
Trying to fold the looming pile of laundry,
When my nine month old son,
last baby,
Crawls up to hug me,
With a da da da.
No, ma, ma, ma, I reply.
With wet opened mouth, baby attempts a kiss against my shoulder.
I do not wipe it off.
Why?
It won't be long before I miss those kisses.

Memories of the first baby,
now driving away,
fill my thoughts,
And I am young again.

To last baby as to first,
I am the most beautiful woman in the world,
An angel,
Never mind who I really am.

Or is that who I am
If you take away the laundry and diapers, the tired.

No. Sadly no.
I wish I could be what my baby sees.

Our parents never are what we see through nine month old eyes.

And we are disappointed.
And I am disappointed
In myself,
In the me that I am.

If posting Ray's poem so beloved by me, "What I Do Is Me - For That I Came" would be copyright violation,
then the poem that inspired it, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, who was credited by someone else who also said he must be the author of some of the most lyrical and beautiful English language in existence:

AS kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.