Lucy looks at me and I can tell she is sad. The yellow pull toy dog my sons had once loudly dragged across my floor sits silent. Her little plastic dog ears are cocked in a ready angle, left in mid-motion, forgotten by a forever distracted toddler who grew up too fast to move her again.
It’s been years now and poor Lucy’s ears have remained at that distorted angle, listening hopefully for the patter of little feet to approach her. Her glossy sticker eyes have become despondent as no more toddlers stick their Goldfish encrusted fingers in them.
It’s a school afternoon and my house is quiet. My own ears are up, my own eyes are despondent, and I am waiting for my breathless little toddlers to waddle in with their snotty noses and fat hugs.
Suddenly they are home and their skinny cowboy legs, spattered with bruises, breeze by me with a scent of grass stains as they help themselves to the cookie jar on the counter. They aren’t even on tiptoe. They are big.
My heart catches. A milestone I didn’t record: the last time they needed my help getting a cookie out of the cookie jar. When was the last time I had to help them, a year ago, a month?
More moments like this are happening, moments where I try to remember the last times.
I was prepared for the major milestones as a mom. I had read every book on motherhood available in the early 2000’s. I knew there would be first steps, first foods, first teeth, and first words. Like any good mamarazzi, I was prepared with my phone’s camera, a brand new DSLR I learned to use on manual, baby books, and a family blog. I would capture everything. No “first” would be missed!
And I did it. My sons’ baby books are so full they can’t even close; every blank has been filled as though I was an over-achieving college co-ed taking my first college examination. I placed notes in the margin to show how much I retained. I have visions of generations after me turning the crinkly parchment and being thrust through time to relive all the firsts again through my well-picked words.
But, no matter how prepared I believed I was, there are subterfuge moments that knock me over. They lurk in the shadows and leave me bruised.
I was so focused on the firsts that I missed the lasts. I don’t know when they happened and I have absolutely no memory of them. I didn’t know I was supposed to post them on Instagram.
It makes me desperately want to go back. I want a Polaroid of the last time my sons were on tiptoes, shimmering fingertips stretching as hard as they could for a cookie jar just out of reach. I want a jpeg of …
…the last time I could ask them to set the dinner table without an eye roll.
…the last time they were innocent enough not to know the word “duh.”
…the last time they stacked the wooden alphabet blocks.
…the last time I made them come with me into the women’s bathroom at Target.
…the last time I washed their tender baby backs with a sponge.
…the last time we showered together, before they became old enough to know that “girl” and “boy” were different, before it was just innocent skin and joyous freedom.
Yet today I am in my kitchen, my sons racing heedlessly by Lucy, their formerly loved pull toy, and racing heedlessly by me.
I stuff a few of the chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar into my mouth, too. I contemplate how much sugar it will take me to finally have the energy to work out time travel.
I want to pack all the lasts that were right in front of me into another book of baby memories that I can take out and smell, hold, and flip until worn.
…the last time they needed a hug after they fell on the kitchen’s threshold.
…the last time we had a dance party where I whisked them around while they stood on my feet.
…the last time they told me what I was wearing was perfect.
…the last time they said “Let it Go” was their favorite song.
If I could, I would take my phone’s camera and I would record it all, every single rare mundane minute. I would record every sloppy kiss, every shoe that no longer fit, even every walk with the big red plastic car that had eyes. I hated that car (cars shouldn’t have eyes)! But today it reminds me of another milestone I didn’t even know: the last walk in the big red plastic car.
Lucy looks at me with pity. The cookies in my mouth taste bland.
Of course, I know I can’t go back. I can’t squeeze my 3-foot tall son and his gangly knobby knees into that plastic car’s seat. I know, I’ve tried.
What other lasts am I not going to see?
I am scarred by what I have already missed and timid about what have yet to. I don’t want to miss another unannounced last. Instead, I want to shout, “Quick, get the phone and start recording everything! Upgrade the iCloud storage plan!”
Yet something stops me. I hold my breath, listening for my boys, and staring at Lucy. I miss her moving squeaks so much. I am utterly alone as I linger over all the times my boys were little and laughed at her.
But suddenly another memory hits me: the time my sons decided to give Lucy to their new baby cousin. In a fit of generosity and excitement, they flung toys into boxes for me to drive to Atlanta. It was the first time they showed how their hearts are growing as large as their adult teeth. I hope their bodies grow to fit – their teeth and their hearts. But back then, I wasn’t ready to let her go yet.
With the memory of my sons’ great toy donation extravaganza fresh in my mind, I have suddenly discovered the key to my freedom from the haunting lasts.
It is time to decide to stop wallowing in the lasts I missed.
I decide, instead, to focus on all the firsts that are still to come.
Yes, first syllables are conquered, but there is still so much growing to do, so many more pivotal moments I have to look forward to…
…the first time they correct something I say and are RIGHT.
…the first fight we have over geometry homework.
…the first time we talk about true love.
…the first time they buy someone flowers.
…the first time they work a job to save for a car.
…the first time they wait at the altar to pledge life to their partner.
…the first time they become dads.
So many firsts to come, so many beautiful moments left to photograph.
I square my shoulders with resolve. All the lasts I want to resurrect for a fraction of a second, just so I can recognize them, I must let go. I must be honored by the firsts I will still get to witness.
So I move. I click “purchase” on the upgraded iCloud package on my phone after all. I still have a lot of their lives left to capture.
I pick Lucy up. She grunts in her old age. I hug her, whisper a “thank you” into her always alert and exhausted ear, then pack her away for the next generation in Atlanta. Yet another milestone.