When my 2-year-old cried out “hold me” I’d hold her, by golly. I’d scoop her up, hold her close, and inhale the precious scent of watermelon, tear-free shampoo. I’d squeeze her little body tight, not missing the fact that she was growing by the day. And I’d think, not much longer.
The fights. Oh my goodness, the fights! The cries of “she hit me” or “she took my ______.” Although I honestly welcomed the fact that it was not much longer to continue, I dreaded the thought that it would be followed by silence. Silence is golden, but it’s also so silent. It lacks laughter and all the other cutesy things they say. The funny words where they mix up syllables or create mismatches you’ve never heard before. One day everything would be quite ordinary and uneventful. Or so I’ve heard.
One day I wouldn’t help reach high shelves, put on shoes, or find a favorite toy.
Not much longer.
One day I wouldn’t need to chase away fears, leave on a light, or wipe away scared tears.
Not much longer.
One day I wouldn’t say “hold still” while I painted tiny toes, braided blond hair, or cleaned a scraped knee.
Not much longer.
One day the advice would be done, the manners would be taught, and the lessons would be learned. Not much longer, and I’d be out of time to pass along the things I’d figured out along the way. Not much longer, and I would see what they had gleaned from me through the years.
Not much longer, and we’d fill out a first job application, take tours of college campuses, and even pick out a wedding dress.
Not much longer, and I would have all the room I required in my big bed. I’d stretch my legs out and long for littles’ laughter. I’d look at the man beside me, and I’d be proud to have him there, proud that I had invested so much into our relationship through it all, because not much longer and it would just be us. Bittersweet.
