The last time to help them tie their shoe.
The last time to wipe toothpaste from the corner of their mouth.
The last time to brush their long, blond hair.
So many times in the midst of my chaotic day I grew frustrated at stray shoes strewn across the living room floor or fingerprints streaked across the bathroom mirror once again. But what if while bending down to retrieve a tiny pink sneaker I remembered that one day I would long for little bare feet running down the halls or tiny fingers dragging along my shiny surfaces? I would, you know.
I would even miss the tiny cups under the couch, and the macaroni stains on my pants. Because one day my floor would be pristinely clean, and only the stain of spilled pink nail polish by the living room bookcase would echo the laughter of tiny girl voices. I wouldn’t have to endure the snot smeared on my new blouse, but along with it I’d have to let go of the way they laid their tired head upon my chest. Every moment came like a special gift wrapped in love, but once opened it would pass quickly. Too quickly. The shiny paper would dull and be discarded only leaving behind the memory of excited eyes. Have you ever seen the glint in a child’s eye when the opened a present they really wanted? It was magical. I wanted to treat each moment exactly like that.
Because when it came down to it every single thing that happened on any given day was the last one of its kind. You could never repeat it once it was gone, and there was not a single do-over (much to my disappointment); so every drop of this life needed to be captured in a jar, held tightly to my breast, and never taken for granted.
