On Not Being Thankful Yet

A video went viral recently.  In it a hearing-impaired baby boy has his cochlear implant device turned on for the first time.  He hears his mother’s voice and immediately smiles, his whole body reacting in pure joy.  It is a heartwarming moment at its core and it’s no wonder that the video has been shared so many times.

When I saw it I felt a strange sense of frustration and annoyance.

Last week Monster received the same implant as the baby in the video.  His device hasn’t been turned on yet so for now we’re just in that middle place, post-op but pre-new hearing.

I saw this video a day or two after Monster’s surgery.  The frustration lingered, turning into anger.  It took me a while to put my finger on why exactly I felt this way.  It’s a joyful video, the way this baby turned to his mother’s voice, the smile that emerged as she continued talking.  There was nothing in this that should elicit the kind of dull rage I found myself experiencing.

And then, as I wrestled Toots into her clothes one morning about a week and a half post surgery, I realized the source of my bitterness.  I was frustrated because that video made me feel like I had to celebrate a decision I was still grieving.  I wasn’t ready to celebrate this miracle of technology that allowed my son to hear.  I wasn’t ready to be thankful for it.  I was still mourning the reality that my son needed this technology to hear in the first place.  I was still digesting the fact that the hearing aids were no longer enough.  I was still grieving the choices I didn’t want to have to make.

While well-meaning people on Facebook cheered and celebrated the miracle technology that allowed a nine-month-old they’ve never met to hear his mother’s voice, I was mourning because my three year old couldn’t hear my voice well enough without it.  And every share and “oh wow” comment made me feel guilty for being so ungrateful.

****

I feel for the device as I wash Monster’s hair now.  The bathtub is the only place he’ll allow anyone to touch the strange, dense bump protruding from his head.  It’s circular, the size of a quarter only much, much thicker.  It’s hard and it hurts my stomach to touch it.  I don’t think it hurts him, but for some reason it pains me, this intruder budging out above his ear, threatening to burst through the skin.

There is a foreign object in my son’s head.  And I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

****

In the aftermath of the surgery I found myself steeling for people’s inquiries about the implant.  Inevitably someone would bring up the YouTube video and marvel about how wonderful it all was.  Usually I put on a happy face and agreed that yes it was wonderful.  Yes we were lucky. 

There is a foreign object in my son’s head and I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

****

My brother and sister were asking about the implant, how it works, what it is.  At one point I explained that Monster had a magnet in his head now and my brother perked up.

“There’s a magnet in his head?  Oh man, now he can never use a compass.  What if he wanted to be an explorer?  Wait.  There’s a magnet in his head.  Can we test it?  Will stuff stick to his head?”

I told him that when Monster was nine and wanted to show off for his friends he could test it, but I wasn’t willing to get out the fridge magnets and see what happened.  Outwardly I laughed with my siblings, knowing that they love my kid and they mean no harm.  Inwardly though I wondered if that would be Monster’s party trick.  Would he be the kid who could stick stuff to his head?   I pictured him at a sleepover, laughing with his friends as they placed magnetic objects on his head.  I couldn’t decide if that image made me laugh or feel profoundly sad…

There is a foreign object in my son’s head and I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

****

I know one day I will be thankful.  One day I will feel right about this decision.  I will celebrate the miracle technology that helps my son hear his mother’s voice.  I know this because one day I was thankful for his hearing aids.  One day they were just a normal part of him and he looked a little strange without them. 

But I’m just not there yet.

The “buck up and carry on” voice reminds me how good we have it.  That in the grand scheme of things this is really very small.  He is alive and well.  He will overcome the challenges his hearing loss throws at him.  There are far, far worse things he could be dealing with.  I nod quietly with this voice and try to be thankful.  Try to keep perspective.

But I’m also holding space for the soft, tender part of my heart that breaks still.   I’m giving it room to grieve and lament, to feel a little ill when my fingers run over the foreign intruder just above my son’s left ear.  I know there will be a “one day.”  And I know that it’s not today.  This season is for heartache and sorrow and I’m going to hold space for it.  It won’t be forever but it is for right now. 

There is a foreign object in my son’s head and I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

And that’s ok.

What Happened in Nashville

I had been praying for weeks that the time would be both sacred and irreverent.  The Thirtieth Birthday Tour was born in book club over a year ago.  A trip to celebrate the big 3-0.  A trip to celebrate the 12 years of friendship between us.  A trip to make memories for the years ahead. 

In our early dreaming stages it was to be an epic adventure, eight women and an RV from Chicago to Nashville with cowboy boots and coordinating fringe.  In reality it became six women in a rented mini van and two more joining via Southwest Airlines.  Playlists were made and old mix CD’s dug up from the early 2000’s in preparation.  Cowboy boots were packed and the coordinating fringe became a realized dream (thank you Whit).

These eight women were my people in college. Miraculously we have maintained connection throughout the years since we parted ways after graduation.  While some have moved away and some I still see every month at book club, I always look forward to any amount of time with all of them.  These days that only seems to happen when someone gets married.

In Nashville we enjoyed extended quality time together.  We enjoyed staying out late and sleeping in.  We ate weird food at weird times and drank beer out of plastic cups in dive bars.  We hopped in and out of every Honky-Tonk on Broadway, accumulating more stamps on our hands than a twenty one year old on her birthday.  We resurrected our college selves.  Shedding our wife and mother skins, our career and “grown up” coats, we lived, for just a few days, like we were back in the responsibility free days of our youth.

And it felt good to resurrect my college self.  In the eight years since graduation I’ve moved so far from the rhythms and modes of that world.   At its core college was, for me, about my friendships.  I’d forgotten just how much fun it is to have inside jokes created out of the random moments of simply being together.  Or to get ready for a night out in a room full of other girls, sharing jewelry and shoes and curling irons.  Or to poke random guys’ butts in bars and feign ignorance when they look around confused.  (What?!  As a married, thirty-year-old youth pastor and mother of two I certainly would never do that, but I can imagine that it would be a lot of fun.)  It felt good to organize my life around my comrades, even for just a weekend.

These days life contains responsibilities and work schedules.  We’ve married new best friends that don’t want to share clothes with us and wouldn’t look good in them anyway.  Peers are still an incredibly important part of the picture but they’ve shifted away from that center spot they once held during our years dedicated to higher learning.  This is a necessary part of moving on in life but that doesn’t make it any less of a bummer when you realize the adjustment has happened.

By far my favorite, favorite part of the weekend (aside from the 18 year old kid giving me a high five for being hot) was the time we spent on Saturday night celebrating and loving each other with words.  Whit had created a lovely way for us to do this with a writing prompt for each girl.    There were a few simple prompts: five words to describe so and so, when I first met so and so I thought, I’m so proud of so and so because, etc.  We spent six hours on Saturday taking turns sharing these prompts for each person.  For someone like Tommy that is an uncomfortable amount of feelings time, but I loved every minute.  I loved being able to look these women in the eyes and tell them who I’ve seen them become, what they mean to me, and why they make me proud.  I loved hearing what others treasured about each person.  I loved honoring that unique and precious point in time where our paths intersected and we changed each other.

My best-loved prompt was “_________ has taught me so much about…”  It stirred something in me to hear what we’ve all taught each other.  Some lessons were all encompassing, taught by one’s character.  Some stemmed from specific, defining moments in the friendship.  They all reminded me that friends are life’s most important teachers.  This truth is evident in my life.  My people shaped and continue to transform who I am as a person.  I learn from them everyday.  It is what I celebrate most in women.  At our best, in our most vulnerable and profound moments, we are the very best teachers for each other. 

What happened in Nashville was that, for a few days, we lived as though we were eighteen again.  Our independence was high, our responsibility low and our friends were the most important part of our day.  We remembered who we were before we became who we are.  As the eight of us enter into this new decade it felt good to pay a little homage to the twenties.  The twenties are hard and strange and sometimes very awkward.  While I’m excited for my thirties, for the freedom I feel in my own skin, I know I wouldn’t have gotten here without enduring my twenties.  And I know that surviving the past twelve years wouldn’t have been possible without my friends.

coordinating fringe ya'll

The Hockey Boys

The Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup on Monday.  Ten years ago this would have been a non-event for me.  The hockey boys changed all that for me though.  Today I’ll watch coverage of the parade and rally with pride and excitement.  Here’s why.

I grew up in the Blackhawks blackout era.  Their owner, in a (foolish) attempt to drive ticket sales, refused to televise the hockey games.  If you wanted to watch the Hawks, he argued, you had to buy a ticket.  It was a dumb move, killing a generation of potential fans.  As a result I mostly looked down on the sport.  I deemed what little I knew to be barbaric.  Hockey players were a savage bunch, vulgar, wild and with few teeth.  They were allowed to punch each other’s lights out during a game.  It was encouraged even!  So uncivil.

Since I didn’t really know anyone who played hockey and it wasn’t on television, my opinion of the sport remained unchanged for years.  Until I met Tommy.  A hockey player.

Tommy had played in high school, college, and grad school.  And continued to play in rec leagues after that.  His nickname was the Urinator because after one to many concussions he would pee his pants any time he received a big hit.  After his 11pm hockey game he would stay out until 2 or 3 am drinking beer with his teammates.  As you can guess, armed with this knowledge, my opinion did not change right away.

It wasn’t until I started watching some of his old man league games that I started to appreciate the sport.  You had to recognize the tenacity it took to get that little teeny hockey puck past the hulking goalie, all while wearing 3/8” blades.  I still wasn’t crazy about the fighting having spent the past two years in a job where my number one goal each day was to not have any physical altercations in my classroom.  But once I learned that Tommy had not once in over fifteen years of hockey playing engaged in a fight, I realized you didn’t have to tussle to play the sport.

Then I met the hockey boys and I really fell in love with the game.  A few months into our marriage a former Wheaton College teammate of Tommy’s passed away unexpectedly.  The funeral brought all the hockey boys back together, a tragic reunion after many years without a lot of contact.  Because of this loss the boys committed to more regular reunions.

Which was why I found myself hosting the hockey boys a year later.  They came to town for an alumni hockey game at Wheaton.  We had recently purchased a house in the area with a big basement.  And we had beer.  It was really all that was necessary to deem our home a suitable base for the weekend. 

Between the college game and beer runs the boys camped out at our house while I fluctuated between trying to stay out of their way and enjoying their company.  I sat on the porch, listening to stories from their college days and the constant good-natured jabs at one another, understanding for the first time why hockey was so important to my husband.  These were Tommy’s people.  Wickedly funny, coarse, and more than a little mischievous, on the surface the hockey boys were exactly what you would expect.  But beyond that they were good hearted, kind, loyal and the kind of friends who would drop anything when another brother was in need.  They laughed loudly while drinking beer and beamed proudly while speaking about their kids.  They played flashlight tag in my basement at 4am.  A bunch of 30 year olds running around in the dark trying to hide and shining lights on each other.

We’ve seen the hockey boys a few more times over the years.  The regular December reunion hasn’t seen solid attendance for the last few years but this April they all came together for a wedding.  They were the same combination of funny and irreverent and solid and upstanding.  They were still a band of brothers, these hockey boys, and I found myself grateful for my husband’s place among them.  

There seems to be a different camaraderie among hockey players.  Perhaps because it attracts a certain kind of guy, or maybe the unique hockey stench forms an unbreakable bond among its members.  I think it may have something to do with the rules of fighting.  Despite my initial distain for the combat aspect of the sport, I’ve come to respect, even appreciate the fighting.  Fighting doesn’t usually happen all willy nilly, a result of hot tempers.  Players fight to protect their own.  If someone takes a particularly hard and unprovoked hit on one of the smaller players you can bet you’ll see gloves thrown off later in the game.  They fight for each other, in defense of their teammates.  It’s kind of cool.  (Of course some fights are just because one guy ran his mouth a little too hard, but on the whole you find a reason for thrown punches.)

I’ve come to really love hockey and the spirit of the hockey boys.  I may even be a bigger fan than my husband.  And though I swore up and down no kid of mine would ever play hockey, I’m finding myself looking forward to a house full of hockey boys (or girls) and all their teammates.  I can think of no finer group for Monster or Toots to join.

For Sarah

My friends and I all turn 30 this year.  It’s a big milestone.  I’ve started honoring some of the fantastic thirty-year-old women in my life with words of love here on the blog.  Today is Sarah’s birthday.  Happy Birthday Friend.

I met Sarah freshmen year at the University of Illinois when we pledged the same sorority.  I’ve searched all the dusty corners of my mind trying to remember exactly when I met her or the moment when our friendship solidified but I can’t quite conjure the memory.  I have a vague sense that it began during shared phone duty in the pine room of the Chi Omega house, but I can’t be sure.  It’s as though Sarah has always been there: a constant and comforting fixture of my college experience and beyond.

Because when I think of college I think first of Sarah and Whit.  The three of us found each other freshmen year and spent the next four years being inappropriately and probably obnoxiously obsessed with each other.  We lived together in the Chi Omega house for a year and a half and spent our senior year in an apartment with two other Chi O’s, Sarah A. and Ash.

Sarah grew up in a small, one (or maybe none?) stoplight town outside of Rockford.  On a farm.  With cows.  Her background was fascinating to my suburban upbringing.  Despite her small town background, or maybe because of it, Sarah strived to get the most out of the experiences the world had to offer.  She sought out those that were different, always wanting to learn about lifestyles and worlds different from her own.  She knew there was a big world out there and she was not about to miss any of it remaining comfortable with the familiar. 

In college Sarah was that perfect combination of driven and carefree.  She worked harder than anyone I knew, joining a million different activities, all of which would be major resume boosters.  I didn’t know what a resume was and consequently spent time doing activities that did nothing for me career wise.  Meanwhile Sar occupied herself as president of our sorority and something called SAA.  I’m still not really sure what that was about but I know she got to meet really important and famous U of I alums and the university president and plan big university events.  Clearly Sar was a big deal.

But she was also wickedly funny and always up for a good time.  All my peeing your pants with laughter memories involved Sar.  Self-deprecating, generous and witty, Sarah brought life to the party.  She may have been Madam President of Chi Omega but that didn’t stop her from breaking into fraternities to steal composite boards and feigning ignorance when their president called the next day.

Sarah taught me what loyalty looked like in friendship.  I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone as loyal as Sar.  It was the source of many of our fights.  I was always caught up with doing whatever was “right” or more often whatever reflected best on me.  Sarah always did whatever made her the best, most loyal friend.

She is still just as loyal.  And generous.  Sarah would give you the shirt off her back (and did numerous times in college when my clothing choices made me look like a third grader).   She is still just as loving and funny and driven as she was 10 years ago.

In college Sarah had a plan.  She was going to take over the business world.  Every internship, club, or class was a step towards the direction of a high-powered career in marketing.  After college that plan culminated in the kind of jobs with the kind of salary she had always wanted.  Her drive and work in college paid off and shortly after graduation Sarah found herself living the dream.

But Sarah found it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as she’d expected.  Sure they pay was good and the success felt nice, but the hours were long and they took her away from her friends and loved ones- the things that really mattered to Sar.  She began to think about what she wanted her life to look like with kids and it didn’t include lots of hours making money for people who already had a lot of money.  So Sarah did something huge.  She gave it all up and went back to school to be a speech therapist.  To spend her working hours helping kids who need to find their voice. 

I have watched her maneuver this career change profoundly impressed with her courage and sense of self.  It takes a lot of bravery to turn your back on the path you’d spent your whole life planning for.  It is daring to walk away from something that’s defined you, particularly when you’ve been so good at it.  It takes grit and guts to leave behind the comfort ability and financial security that kind of work offers.  But Sarah did it anyway.  She took bold steps in a new direction.  She took stock of what was most important to her and built a new life around those things.

I’m really proud of this sweet friend of mine.  As a mom very familiar with speech therapists I know Sarah will be awesome.  And while her future clients may be a little less connected or high profile than her former ones, I have no her impact will be even greater than before.  She will help these kiddos find their voice and enable them to go out into the world and succeed at whatever they desire. 

Happy birthday Sarah!  I’m so thankful I’ve gotten to call you friend for 12 years.  Here’s to many, many more.

I'm leaving in a 12 passenger van, don't know when I'll be back again (next Saturday)

One of the hazards of the job that is youth ministry is the student mission trip.  Pretty much every leader of the youths takes their kids in one or many 12 passenger vans to some location to serve those in need. And I am no exception.  Today I embark on such a trip.  Tommy and I, along with my rock star volunteer leader Liz (St. Liz as she is known in my heart), will take 11 high school students to Omaha to do home repair and general merry making for the fine people of Nebraska.  It's 7 nights, 8 days of together time with my favorite students.

I've been dreading it for weeks.

I haven't been on one of these trips in two years.  Last year I had a newborn and leaving for a week was out of the cards.  I remember dreading it two years ago.  Dreading the week of camp songs and early morning wake ups.  Dreading the ice breakers and sleeping on air mattresses.  Most of all dreading leaving my then 13 month old Monster for a whole week.  I also remember being surprised by how much fun I had.  How nice it was to have uninterrupted, undistracted time with my students.  How great of an experience it was.

You would think, this time around, I would be able to rest on those positive feelings.  The fun, the great, the happy.  For whatever reason I'm still just dreading.

I think it's because Monster is a little older and more aware of what's going on.  I know that he'll understand that we're gone, but not necessarily that we're coming back soon.  He'll feel the stress and anxiety of separation but not the comfort of "they'll be home in 5 more days, 3 more days, tomorrow!"  Toots is still at that age where she's pretty much fine as long as there is an adult in the room that loves her.  But my best boy... he's in a harder spot.  Add to that the shaky potty training status we've achieved and the fact that despite my difficult to make request he is starting back up at school after a two week break with a new teacher.   I'm pretty much a disaster over here.

I'm typing up this post on the quick to ask for your prayers for my family if you are the praying type.  Pray for my kiddos.  Pray that they'll feel safe and secure and that the week will fly by.  Pray for Monster as he starts with a new teacher on Monday.  Pray that he doesn't poop his pants at school (it's a legitimate concern).  Pray for my amazing parents as they juggle the two beasts I've birthed.  And pray for Tommy and I.  That we would be present and connected to our students.  That we would enjoy the uninterrupted, undistracted time.  That it would be worth leaving our kids for a week.  And that we would get home safe to these sweet faces.

Thanks pals.  Be well this week.

IRL

Once upon a time I started a blog.  Then I cloaked it in CIA level secrecy.  My own husband lost access to it when he casually mentioned the URL address to friends one night.  (It was so casual that they promptly forgot it, but Tommy got locked out for a good 6 months.  Eventually I let him back in, but not without a strict lecture about how the writing I put on the World Wide Web was private and not for the public to see.)  My blog was really just a more official place for all the random thoughts in my head to call home.

As I started dipping my toes into the blogging world I continued to keep my own work under lock and key.  I never included my blog address in any comments I left others, even refusing to leave comments at all if it automatically linked up.  I wasn’t ready for anyone to read, judge, or evaluate my thoughts.  I knew I wasn’t a professional writer.  I knew I wasn’t saying anything life shatteringly profound.  The writing was clumsy and awkward, I posted maybe once every other month, and none of it ever connected really.  I wasn’t writing for an audience, just me.

Over time I got more comfortable sharing my blog with a wider audience.  It was an audience of strangers albeit, but an audience nonetheless.   I never shared my blog with anyone I knew In Real Life though.  Friends knew that I had a blog but it’s name and address remained top secret.  While I’d reached a point where I didn’t care if some one in California came across my site and thought, “meh, she’s not a very good writer,” I wasn’t ready to chance my friends reacting that way.  I didn’t want everyone in my real life to think that I walked around imagining myself as a Writer with a capital W.

There were other reasons for my secret World Wide Web life.  Online I could write my truths as I experienced them without any accountability.  When my thought truths were shared with people who never saw me in real life there was no one to contradict them with my actual reality.  I could talk the talk online without anyone knowing if I also walked the walk.  Sometimes our talk and our walk doesn’t match up, not because we are choosing hypocrisy but because we just haven’t seen aspects of ourselves clearly yet.  I know there are ways that I see myself that don’t match up with how people in my real life experience me.  Exposing my writing meant getting comfortable with this contradiction and (life-long) journey to match my perceived self with my actual self. 

Finally, I didn’t want offend or hurt someone with my writing.  I don’t post anything I wouldn’t say aloud to my nearests and dearests but I am keenly aware of the one sided nature of a blog post.  If I’m expressing my opinion about a topic in person I’m able to read your face, to pay attention if something in my words sting or if I’m not being clear and adjust accordingly.  I can’t do that online.  Writing on the Internet puts it all out there and hopes for the best.  Or sometimes just the last word.  On the Internet the priority tends to be to communicate clearly and captivatingly the author’s opinion and perspective.  In a real life conversation there is give and take, room to communicate in love and truth with peace being the ultimate landing place.  The last thing I’d want is for someone in my real life to walk away from a blog post hurt and angry with me.

But over time my secret online life became public.  I shared specific posts I’d written with a few friends, and a few more found me on their own.  Then, when I needed to host a dinner party for a blog post I was told that my friends’ attendance came with a condition.  There would be no dinner guests if the URL address of my blog were not shared. Then things got really real when my two old friends Abby and Catie shared some of my posts with their friends.  My online presence was no longer a secret.   

And so the doors of my corner of the Internet have been flung open and people I know IRL now know me online too.  And I’m not gonna lie, there have been moments where my insecurities have gotten the best of me and I’ve started thinking up names for a new even more secret blog.  But on the whole, I’m so happy to share this space with the faces I see day in and day out.  Their support has been so encouraging and life giving.  It’s allowed people to know me more deeply and intimately.  It’s given me a reason to keep writing (what up 2013?  It’s only June and I’ve already written twice as many posts as any other year!).

I thank you for reading.  And today I share my misgivings asking for grace.  Have patience with me if my self-awareness hasn’t quite reached my reality yet.  I’m growing and stretching and sometimes it takes a while.  I promise to be as honest as I am able, to never put up a front and to admit when I’ve been wrong. 

And if I’ve written something that leaves you stung or hurt or judged- please tell me.  Let’s talk about it.  I can only do that face to face with you real life friends.  If something isn’t clear or you have questions or concerns, my heart is open- please ask.  This space, this Internet home of mine is only worthwhile if it opens dialogue, brings connection and infuses the world with more love and grace.

All this of course extends to readers who I’ve never had the privilege of meeting.  (Are there any of you out there?  I’m never quite sure if anyone besides Tommy is actually reading this.)  Feel free to email me or leave a comment.  Start a dialogue.  The Internet can bring out the worst of humanity (as is evident by the Cheerios commercial backlash) but I’m also convinced that it can be used to foster the best in us too.  My hope is that this space does that, and you feel free to dialogue and question and push back when necessary- in grace and love of course.  

On Lasts

Monster’s experiencing a bit of a cuddle phase these days.  When he wakes up, be it in the morning or after a nap, he pats his little bed beckoning me to come and lay down.  Then he climbs on top of me, little head resting in that crook between my jaw and collar bones, feet stretching past my knees.  His hands find mine and place them on his back, universal sign for “scratch my back please.”  And I oblige, gladly. 

These moments take me back to the tumultuous year of his infancy.  Monster and I spent many, many hours sleeping this way.  Back then his whole body fit on my chest, our breathing fluctuating in and out of sync.  It was often the only way he would sleep during the day.  After a particularly bad night of sleep, desperate for both of us to catch up we would sometimes spend the entire day like this, nursing in between rounds of sleep.    I both longed for and loathed the hours spend curled up with my first born.  These were perhaps the sweetest of moments of those first months and yet I found myself racked with guilt for the hours spent creating bad sleeping habits and accomplishing nothing of worth.

Of course I was accomplishing the work of most sacred worth.  I was bonding with my boy.  Creating sweet moments I will one day physically long for when Monster is a lanky six foot two teenage boy trying out for the hockey team.  It’s hard to see that in the moment when laundry and emails abound though.

At any rate, before I knew it my baby was six months old and sleeping soundly for hours in his own bed and the only time he curled up on my chest like that was during bouts of sickness.  Unable to breathe properly with his nose stuffed up, his little body found comfort and sleep tucked in that crook again.   These moments were few and far between but I found myself relishing the few times he would sleep on my chest.

I thought about all this the other day as I cuddled with Monster after his nap.  I realized that I don’t remember the last time Monster took a nap on my chest.  Whenever that day was I certainly didn’t realize it would be the last time.  If I had I’d have made a mental not, a memory to savor in the years ahead.  But that’s how it goes.  One month you are taking for granted the hours spent with a newborn on your chest and before you know it you realize, too late, that it never happens any more. 

I understood, in that moment, that someday there would come the last time Monster snuggled with me like that.  Someday I will scratch his little back for the last time.  I won’t likely know it is the last time, won’t savor it or store it in the corners of my memory.

There will be other lasts.  I won’t always have a child popped on one hip, or a hand to hold while crossing the street.  There will be a last time I pour milk into a sippy cup or cut crusts off bread.  A last time I give someone a bath and put shoes on anyone’s feet besides my own.

Here, in the thick of this phase of life, it’s hard to imagine a time when I’m not doing all these things.  I can’t fathom the last time I do any of the above with Monster or Toots, but I know it will come.  I may look forward to throwing out the sippy cups and ushering my kids towards more independence but I wonder if I would grieve more if I understood I was doing some of these things for the last time.  Would I savor it a little more?  Appreciate these endless tasks just a bit?

These years of life with littles, man, the days are long but the years are short.  I am appreciating the truth of this saying in fresh ways today.  And savoring the moments spent with Monster on one hip and Toots underfoot.  One day it will be the last.