You Usually Don't Know It's the Last Time
The firsts get all the attention.
First smile.
First word.
First steps.
First day of school.
We photograph them. Write down the date. Tell Grandma. Post them. Save the tiny hospital bracelet and the first-day sign and approximately 4,700 pictures to our phones.
But nobody really prepares you for the lasts.
Mostly because you usually don't know they're happening.
Childhood doesn't always announce when it's changing.
Sometimes it just quietly stops doing something it used to do.
There Was a Last Time
At some point, there was a last time you carried them from the car because they fell asleep.
A last time they mispronounced a word in that way your whole family loved.
A last time they asked you to help with something they can now do completely by themselves.
A last bath filled with toys.
A last night in the toddler bed.
A last time they reached their arms up and said, “Carry me.”
A last time you cut their food into tiny pieces.
And you probably didn't stop in the middle of it and think:
This is the last one.
You were probably thinking about bedtime.
Or laundry.
Or whether anyone had brushed their teeth.
Or why there was a wet towel on the floor again.
Because that's how childhood works.
The enormous things happen right in the middle of the completely ordinary ones.
And Honestly? That's Probably a Good Thing
Imagine knowing every last time while it was happening.
We'd be emotionally unstable by breakfast.
“Mom, can you pour my cereal?”
“YES. AND I WILL REMEMBER THIS FOREVER.”
“...okay?”
We aren't supposed to spend childhood mourning childhood while it's still happening.
We're supposed to live it.
Sometimes impatiently.
Sometimes beautifully.
Sometimes while yelling from another room that somebody needs to find their other shoe.
You don't have to recognize every moment as precious for it to have been precious.
The Evidence Is Everywhere
Sometimes you find it in a drawer.
A tiny pair of pajamas.
The cup they used every single day and then suddenly didn't.
A toy that used to go everywhere but hasn't moved in six months.
A pair of shoes so small you cannot understand how a whole human foot once fit inside them.
Sometimes it's on your phone.
You scroll back two years and hear a voice that doesn't sound like theirs anymore.
You see cheeks that disappeared so gradually you never noticed them leaving.
You see the version of your family that existed then.
And there it is.
Proof that things were changing even while they felt exactly the same.
But Growing Isn't Only Losing
This is the part I think we forget when nostalgia sneaks up on us.
Yes, some versions of our kids disappear.
But then we get to meet another one.
The toddler who needed you for everything becomes the kid who proudly says:
“I can do it.”
The little kid who asked a thousand questions starts having opinions you never gave them.
Their jokes get funnier.
Their interests get more specific.
Their personalities get bigger.
You start having conversations instead of just answering questions.
And somehow you can miss the little version of them desperately while being completely fascinated by the person standing in front of you.
Parenting is this strange privilege of missing who they were
while being completely fascinated by who they're becoming.
So Notice One Thing
Not everything.
That's impossible.
And please don't turn this into another thing you're supposed to be doing correctly.
You do not need to cherish every tantrum.
You do not need to gaze lovingly at the laundry.
You are allowed to be extremely ready for bedtime.
Just notice something every once in a while.
The way they say a certain word.
The ridiculous thing they insist on sleeping with.
The hand that still automatically reaches for yours.
The little shoes beside the door.
The voice yelling “MOM!” from another room for the fourteenth time.
Because one day you might realize you haven't heard it that exact way in a very long time.
We can't slow childhood down.
But every once in a while, we can notice it moving. ❤️
