I never wanted it to end.
From the very beginning, from the very first moment the nurse laid you on my chest and I held you in my arms, red faced, wailing, a miracle of lungs and breath, telling the world you were here. It was the beginning. The three of us.
Us against the world.
But I already knew somewhere down deep it was all going to go way too fast.
You were colicky and cranky, with baby acne and little hiccups. I was unprepared and overwhelmed, calling the doctor at midnight. You cried and I cried too. You went with me everywhere. You were my buddy, my side kick, my partner in early morning trips to the coffee shop, errands to the grocery store and laundry mat, and sleeping on my chest in the baby Bjorn while I washed the dishes. You needed everything from me and I was exhausted, but it was just us, just the three of us.
I don’t remember the last time you crawled into my bed at night or fell asleep on my chest. But I know one night without a single clue it was sacred, I kept my arm still until it grew tingly under your head, I know your breath was warm and peaceful, I know you smelled like home.
And then I blinked.
And it was your first day of kindergarten. Combed back hair, jeans that would be ripped and covered in grass stains within the hour, a backpack that took over half your body, a stuffy named Gabriel for nap time.
I’m not sure when the last time was that you slipped your hand in mine to cross the street, soft and squishy. I’m not sure the last time you came running to me when you skinned your knee, crying for me to kiss it. I had no idea it was sacred, that moment with my last magic kisses, I don’t know if I was distracted by dinner on the stove or by the cries of your baby sister. I don’t know if I paid enough attention to the last, I hope that I did.
Because then I blinked.
And you were in fifth grade playing kick ball at recess and talking in your sleep about football and school. You were reading Harry Potter and having friends over and biking in the cul de sac until it was dark. You were all football all the time. You were learning tackle drills and memorizing plays and bringing home stinky cleats and jerseys. You were asking for prank kits for Christmas and forever losing another the ball or frisbee on the roof.
I don’t know when the last time was that I tucked you. I’m not sure when you grew out of laying on the ground doodling while I read a chapter book out loud night. I’m sure I was tired and I started stumbling over my words the later it got. I’m sure there were a couple wrestling matches between you and your brother that started and stopped. I’m sure I didn’t know it was the last time, because if I had, I think I would have read all night.
Because then I blinked.
And it was freshmen year. You were tall, lanky, growing into your body. You were taking drivers ed and I wondered how on earth I was supposed to let you drive on your own without being in a constant state of panic. You were eating everything in the house, having sleepovers in the garage, prank calling and meeting up with friends at the beach.
I don’t remember the last time I drove you and your friends to a football game or Hurricane Harbor, or picked you up from swimming at the beach, but I know we cranked the music and you all took turns DJing. I know we probably listened to Snoop Dog and Missy Elliot and I know you wrestled so hard the car shook.
And then I blinked.
And here we are at senior year. A year of lasts, right before a year of so many firsts.
You’re still all you, but you’ve grown and changed too. Occasionally I still catch glimpses of the little boy. When you’re tired, when you get that mischievous grin, when you ask me for Mac and Cheese at midnight. You still like mischief and brownies and you’re all football all the time. But you’re also more you than you’ve ever been. You’re fishing and dating and working and coaching the youth league you used to play for.
I know the days are numbered when you’ll be sleeping under our roof, blowing open the door so hard it hits against the wall, leaving your shoes in the living room and asking me if I’ll be up late enough to switch over your laundry. I know the days are numbered when all of us will be around the table most nights, late after everyone’s practices have ended, talking, discussing, laughing, and passing potatoes.
And just can’t help but wish I never had to blink.
Love,
Written by Jess Johnston
