Last night I watched my three-year-old nephew as he ran from the kitchen to the arm chair where his mother sat, throwing himself in her arms. “I love you, Mommy!” He shouted. Then he was up and running, ready to make the loop again. 3-year-olds love repetition.

Watching him, I thought about the many things that come to an end as children grow.  When my son was little, I wish there had been some sort of alert, like a gentle chime in my ear, to let me know when it was the very last time we would do a thing together, that it would never happen again. Because if I’d known, in each of those instances, I’d have lingered in the moment, savored it, etched it on my heart, and properly mourned the loss.

But there is no warning; nothing nudging you to stop and pay attention.
We capture our children’s bigger moments with celebrations and photos that will help us remember. It’s the precious things we don’t see sneaking away, like the last time my son would ever call me Mommy.  The last time he’d fall asleep across my lap, raise his arms to be picked up, or ask me to kiss a boo-boo. The last time he’d crawl in our bed when he was afraid, bring me a pocketful of rocks, or sing his ABCs. The last time I would ever rock him to sleep in my arms, carry him to bed, or read him a bedtime story.  The last time I’d put cookies out for Santa, play dinosaurs, or make him chocolate milk.

There was a last time for tickles, shadow puppets, and a million kisses all over his face. A last time for walking him to school, zipping his jacket, and teaching him to ride a bike, anxiously holding it steady until it was safe to let him peddle off on his own.