The weeks have flown and I’ve tucked T in for the last time as pre-schooler. Okay, it’s not really the first time we’ve encountered a “last time.” But this is not like the last midnight feeding, the last diaper, the last time we used a stroller before graduating to riding on Daddy’s shoulders. This one stings with immeasurable intensity from which I’ve found no escape for months. It drags with it other lasts – various story times and sprout groups, Mommy and Me yoga, our routine of “projects” and planning our day over breakfast. There is a void that O can fill only partly, at least for now, since he’s still a bit young to partake in most of the activities that have crowded our calendar over the past few years.
My husband keeps reminding me that I was the wild one, the woman who traveled for a living and never wanted kids. I could not have known the joy I would get from going on “turkey hunts” and reading Pete the Cat with the sweet boy with light in his eyes. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much – in this case, T’s first comes with the excitement of a child gaining a new adventure, while my last showcases only what I’ve loved so much and have lost. Tomorrow seems both infinitely far and too soon to bear.