Nobody Told Me
Somewhere between then and now, there was a last time.
He is buried so deeply in a blanket that only the top of his curly head pokes out. He looks so peaceful that I hate to disturb him, but I know he will be afraid if he wakes up alone on the couch in the middle of the night. I reach down to find his warm body wrapped in hidden layers and struggle to gather him up. As if overnight, he has become all elbows and knees, and it takes more effort than it used to. I finally manage it by draping his legs over one arm and cradling his neck with the other.
A scene flashes before my eyes, and he’s two weeks old. I’m sitting on this same couch holding him, examining every inch of him, and even fully extended in a newborn stretch, he fits perfectly along the length of my thigh. I hold his tiny hand and marvel at each fingernail, the folds of his ears, each perfectly formed toe. The weight of his warm body gives me a renewed sense of purpose, and as I inhale his sweet newborn scent, the sleepless nights suddenly don’t seem quite so heavy.
When was the last time I held him like that on my lap? When did it become difficult to lift him off the couch? When was the last time he slept on my shoulder while I patted his back and rocked him? When was the last time he asked me to rock him and sing to him?
Somewhere between then and now, there was a last time, and nobody told me.
Just a few hours earlier, I was standing at the stove with my hands covered in raw chicken when I heard it: “Mama, hold me.”
An exasperated sigh escaped my lips before I even turned around. My husband would be home any minute, and I desperately wanted supper ready by the time he walked through the door. But when I turned to look, I was almost shocked to find this long-legged boy standing in front of me. No longer the toddler with plump little hands reaching up, crying “Up up, Mommy!” It was as if time had lurched forward just in the time it took me to sauté the vegetables.
I heard myself saying, “Sweetie, Mama is trying to cook dinner. I can’t right now.” His mouth turned downward, and his eyes pleaded with me, but he didn’t say anything. He just slowly turned around and started to walk away.
It wasn’t the first time I’d said it. That’s the part that stings. I have a whole catalog of I-can’t-right-nows, and he has never once stopped asking.
And it hit me. One day I will hold him, and it will be the last time ever.
Before he could leave the kitchen, I had washed my hands and was chasing after him with open arms. I scooped him up and held him tightly, laughing because his legs dangle down past my knees now. He no longer fits neatly into my arms, but neat was never the goal. He squeaked out a “Mama, you’re squeezing me too tight.” I didn’t want to let go.
My husband came home to a half-cooked dinner and his wife standing in the kitchen holding a five-year-old like a life raft. He didn’t ask any questions. He just set the table.
Even after I set my son down to finish dinner, my arms kept the shape of him. We ate late, and it didn’t matter at all. All through dinner I kept looking at him across the table.
How many more times will he ask me to hold him?
We were walking across a parking lot just this week, and as I reached for his hand, I thought, when does he become embarrassed to be seen holding my hand?
I helped him rinse the shampoo out of his hair last night and thought, when does he no longer need my help bathing?
I tied his shoe and couldn’t help but think, when will be the last time he asks for help with this?
All of the normal, ordinary things I used to take for granted suddenly feel like a luxury of motherhood. And I’m flooded with the ones already gone, the ones I didn’t know were last times. When did he stop saying “jungle bees” instead of bumblebees? When did he stop asking every morning for a Mabel, which I knew meant a bagel?
I would like to blame time for all of it. But not every last time was taken from me. Some I traded, for a cleaner kitchen or one more email, and I never even noticed the exchange.
His little brother is still deep in his own funny words, and this time I know to pay attention. I thought knowing would help. Mostly it means I grieve in both directions now.
My heart aches, and I’m tempted to try to treasure every single moment somehow. I want to take a million pictures. I already have tens of thousands on my phone. I take them like insurance and look at them almost never. I want to record every minute of our life. I want to sit and stare at him in awe the way I did when I first brought him home.
But the rational side of me knows that living like this is impossible and maybe a little deranged. I work 65 hours a week. There are daily rhythms to tend to, dinner to cook, laundry to fold. I can’t live life in a permanent farewell. Treating every hug like a funeral would poison the hugs.
Teach us to number our days, the psalmist prays. But these days refuse to be numbered. I never get to know which time is the last time. All I can do is answer him when he calls.
“Teach us to number our days,
that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
- Psalm 90:12
I maneuver through the doorway of his bedroom, careful not to knock his knees against the frame, and I feel the weight of his body leave my arms as I lay him down onto his bed. Before I go, I do what I have done every night since he was born. I stand still until I see his chest rise and fall.
I walk back to the living room. My arms are lighter, but now I’m carrying a different weight.
This one I don’t get to lay down.
Four Weeks Until Kindergarten.
I'll be here every Thursday until then, writing it down as it happens.
A note before you go.
Last week I wrote about realizing I have only a handful of summers left with my oldest. (You can find that original essay here.) This essay came out of the same ache: all the last times I never saw coming.
So I made myself something for these final few weeks. Not a bucket list. There is nothing to plan, nothing to buy, and no activities to pin. And most importantly - absolutely no pressure. Just a few quiet pages for writing down what’s already happening: the funny words, the ordinary things, a letter for him to open someday. The mama who wrote down “jungle bees” somewhere would have my whole heart, so I’m leaving it here for you, too.
It’s free for subscribers below, so be sure to subscribe if you would like access. If someone you love is also counting down to a first day of school, both the essay and the pages are theirs to share.
Thank you for this, Esther.
This brings to mind two things:
"Elbow room." When our kids were little, we learned not to pack life too tightly. There must be elbow room for all the more important things that cannot be planned. That's what you demonstrate here.
Also, my children are all long grown now (29 through 39 this year). But, of necessity, a couple of them lived with us for years as grown adults. Those were rough years for our family. Of course, there were inconveniences and frictions--especially during the Lockdown. But I tried to remember that most parents don't get to spend time with their grown children. I should be grateful and enjoy what I can. One day, they will move out and move on. And that is as it should be.
As a 52 year old mother of 2 sons, ages 33 and 26, I can say that this sacred sadness only deepens as time widens its mouth swallowing up all the moments.