There’s something I think about sometimes, usually in the early morning when the kids are asleep and the house is still and it’s this: there are so many things we do as parents without realizing we are doing them for the last time.
There is a last time you carry them from the car into the house because they are tired and a last time you scoop them up when they are crying and their entire body fits against your chest. There’s a last time you hold their hand crossing a parking lot, their little fingers wrapped around yours while you instinctively watch for cars. But you don't know it's the last time.
There is a last time you pick them up and carry them to bed. A last time you buckle their car seat. A last time you cut their food into tiny pieces because you're afraid they'll choke. A last time they ask you to stay in their room until they fall asleep. A last time they crawl into your bed in the middle of the night and you wake up with a knee in your back. There is a last time they reach for you without thinking.
And then, one day, they don't.
All of our kids are at an age where we will start doing things for the last time with them. They’re getting bigger. Their legs are getting longer. Their hands are getting bigger. They’re starting to walk ahead of us instead of beside us. They are learning how to cross the parking lot without holding our hands. They have stopped needing us to carry them because they can carry themselves. And in many ways, the last time has already happened.
I wish we got a little warning. I wish there was some tiny bell that rang in the background and said, Pay attention! This is the last one!! Because if I knew, I would hold on a little longer. I would carry them all the way upstairs even though my back hurt. I would sit on the edge of the bed for another ten minutes. I would let the hug linger. I would squeeze those little hands in mine before letting go. I would memorize the weight of them, the smell of their hair, the sound of their voice when they said, "Goodnight."
But that's not how life works.
We don't get the warning. We just move through these ordinary Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Saturday mornings, collecting last times without realizing it. And maybe that's why the ordinary moments matter so much and why we’re always writing about it online. Childhood never announces its exits. It just leaves one room while we are busy making dinner in another.
So, lately I've been trying to notice! When our middle son rests his head on my shoulder in the morning before school, or how he always wants to hold my hand in public (still! sob!). Or our daughter’s little body climbing into my lap to sit in it at dinner last night. Or even the voice calling from another room, "Dad?" The bedtime kiss and good night. The ridiculous story that could have been told in thirty seconds but always takes ten minutes (!). The little things I might otherwise rush through because there is laundry to fold and dishes in the sink and somewhere we are supposed to be.
I'm trying to remember that one day I will wish I could have just one more ordinary night. One more bedtime. One more tiny hand in mine. One more time carrying them when they are too tired to walk. And I won't know which one is the last.
None of us do.
So maybe the best we can do is treat each one like it might be. In fact, a few months back, PJ picked up our boys in the living room, one at a time, and had me take a picture of each of them in case he never picked them up again (they’re getting heavy!) And that way, we have proof of the last time, and I know we’ll look back on that years down the road and be grateful we did it Because they are growing up whether we are ready or not. And if we can't stop time, maybe we can at least slow down long enough to notice it.
To hold on for one extra second. To take the picture. To sit on the edge of the bed. To say yes when they ask for one more hug.
Because someday, there will be a last time, and I hope, when it happens, I am there.