“What’s on your agenda today?” a friend asks.
“The little one and I are headed to a playdate,” I reply.
“Ah – soak up these days,” she says. “I used to have a standing playdate every Thursday with a friend down the street before my kids started school. Now, years later, we still reminisce about that season. We always say how grateful we are that we didn’t know the last playdate was the last one.”
The reality of that truth punched me straight in the gut.
Rarely in life do we recognize a last while we’re living it. Rarely, as parents, do we know it’s the final rock in the rocking chair… the last bedtime song… the last time they say the little phrases that only make sense to you. There is no indicator, no flashing sign urging you to stop, slow down, and hold a moment just a little longer – because once it’s gone, it never returns.
Over the past five years, as I’ve watched my bonus kids grow from little ones into teenagers, I’ve witnessed so many quiet endings: the last time their dad sang bedtime songs, the last time one of them crawled into bed with us, the last dinner plate we fixed for them, the last spontaneous dance party in the kitchen. Not once did we know, in the moment, that it would be the final time. Now they put themselves to bed, and we’re lucky to catch a glimpse of their faces after dinner.
Life changes on a dime. And it’s a beautiful progression.
We are incredibly lucky to witness the firsts and the lasts, to raise children in the land of the free, to walk them through milestones both big and small. The gratitude for those blessings is never lost on me.
In the coming year, our three-year-old will start preschool. By the grace of God, his dad and I will walk him into his first classroom, and Friday playdates will slowly become fewer and farther between. I can already see the end of those days drawing closer, which means I’m learning to linger longer… to sit on the floor, to stretch the day for as long as possible, to soak up what I can while it’s still mine to hold.
I’m learning if there’s one thing parenting has continually taught me over the last five years, it’s this: the ordinary days are the ones we miss the most – and the lasts, though quiet, deserve to be cherished just as deeply as the firsts.
-by Destini McPherson
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