The Last Time

I was thinking the other day about when the kids were little and all the things you do with them without really thinking about it.

Pushing them on the swings, carrying them on your shoulders when their legs got tired, reading the same bedtime story over and over again, cuddling them before they went to sleep.

At the time you think those days are just going to go on forever.

I can remember standing behind the swing pushing them higher and higher because they kept shouting, 'Again! Higher!' You don't stand there thinking this might be the last time I ever do this. It's just another day at the park.

But there must have been a last time.

There was a last push on the swing and I didn't know it was the last one.

There was a last time one of them put their hand up because they wanted carrying. A last time they sat on my shoulders. A last bedtime story. A last time they needed a cuddle before going to sleep.

None of us knew those moments were ending. They just quietly stopped happening.

Then suddenly their shoes aren't little by the door anymore. They don't need you to hold their hand everywhere. Their world gets bigger and they start walking a little further ahead of you.

And you're proud of them. That's what you want. You want them to grow up and find their own way.

But there's a part of you that would give anything to go back for five minutes and have one of those completely ordinary moments again.

One more push on the swing.

One more carry home.

One more story.

One more cuddle goodnight.

I think that's what got me thinking about it. When you're raising kids, especially when you're tired and the house is a mess and there are toys everywhere, you can spend so much time wishing things were easier.

You don't realise that one day you'd give anything to have that noise and chaos back for an afternoon.

Because nobody tells you when the last time is happening.

You only realise it was the last time when it's already become a memory.