Raymund and Denielle’s Note: This article touched our hearts so much that we
decided to re-post it here in its entirety. It made us realize how fleeting and
temporary everything is, and the importance of appreciating the present. Hope
you all learn a thing or two especially the young parents out there. God bless!
Tonight, Little Dude asked for a snuggle before bed. It was well
past his bedtime and I was tired, cranky and had a stack of laundry to fold, a
memo to write and a blog post to finish. I told him I'd snuggle for two
minutes.
He crawled under his blanket, squirmed until he was comfortable
and pushed me to the edge of the mattress. He offered me his favorite blankie
to keep me warm. I put my arm around him and he was sound asleep before I had
finished cataloguing the list of things I had to do before I could crawl into
my own bed. I considered making a stealthy escape but stopped when he threw his
arm around my neck while mumbling unintelligibly. A sleeping 4-year old's arm
has as much strength as a soggy piece of toast, but I didn't move. Despite my
earlier desire to leave, I stayed and pulled him toward me.
I had one of those rare blissful parenting moments when
everything else fades away and you appreciate the simple physical presence of
your child. I marveled at the amount of heat a small boy produces when he
sleeps and the ease with which he leaves the world behind. I smelled his hair.
The laundry could wait.
It hit me in the darkness of his cluttered room that these days
are numbered. Some night in the future, Little Dude will ask me to snuggle with
him before he falls asleep, and I will have no idea that it will be the last
time. I won't know to pay attention or to try to commit every minute to memory.
Days or weeks or months later, I will try to recall when that last snuggle
happened. I won't be able to. I know I will ache to slide next to him on his
narrow bed, listen to him breathe and wait for the moment when he surrenders to
his dreams. All of the irritations, the inconveniences and the wishing for time
alone will seem insignificant in comparison to the warmth and peace of his
nighttime routine. I will regret the times I hurried through bedtime and left
his room even though he asked me to stay "Just one more minute,
Mommy."
It will be too late.
I just now understand that in anticipating my son's
"firsts," I've forgotten to appreciate what he's left behind. The
firsts are monumental, celebrated and captured on film. I reveled in Little
Dude's first steps, jotted down his first words and am prepared to save lost
teeth. There isn't a first I haven't recorded in some way. I've paid less
attention to his "lasts." I've ignored the finality that comes with
moving from one stage to another.
I don't remember the last day that Little Dude's eyes were blue
before they turned green. I can't recall the last time his hair was baby soft
and curly, or the last time he crawled or took a real nap. I can't pinpoint the
last time we shared the peaceful quiet of a 3 a.m. feeding, or he squealed with
joy to be riding his wooden rocking horse. There will be a hundred last times
to come. And I won't know they've passed until there is no hope of recapturing
them. I know this because I don't remember the last day he used a pacifier or
waited for us to get him from his bed rather than clomping into our bedroom at
some ungodly pre-dawn hour exuberant and ready to face the day as we struggle
to open our eyes. I've forgotten when he stopped liking sweet potatoes or
saying "Pick mine up!"
Not that there aren't stages I'm happy are gone. I don't miss
teething, two-hour feedings, biting or needing to be carried everywhere. I'm
neither Pollyanna nor a masochist. Babies are darling; I'm also glad I don't
have one anymore. Raising children isn't all warm snuggles and charming
memories. Parenting can be a long, hard slog.
But
for today I'm focusing on the last times still to come, even though I won't
know that they're the last chapters until long after they've gone. The last
snuggle. The last time Little Dude asks me to bring him chocolate milk. The
last time we play fire trucks. The last time he falls down and comes crying to
me with his entire body shaking, tears streaming down his face, believing with
childish certainty that a kiss from me will make his skinned knee better. The
last time he asks to marry me. The last time he believes in my omniscience. The
last time we color together at the kitchen table. I'm not naïve enough to
believe that this moment of reflection will stop me from becoming irritated,
impatient, frustrated, bored or upset tomorrow when my son whines, spills
spaghetti sauce on the rug or throws a fit because I won't let him stay up
late. Maybe, though, I'll temper my response if I can remember how fleeting
this all is. That for every moment I've prayed would end, there is something I
miss.
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Corneal on Twitter: www.twitter.com/dcorneal
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