Remembering the Lasts

I think it was my dad who once commented to me that we always remember the firsts–the first lost tooth, the first bike ride, the first kiss–but we don’t always remember the lasts. When was the last time my five year old hugged me when she woke up in the morning? When was the last time my younger son, now 10 years old, held my hand crossing the street? This quarantine, not knowing if this is the new normal or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to keep my family close, I am trying to appreciate some of the lasts for my kids before they flit by unremembered.

Although I know she has lost valuable socialization with kids her own age, I am so thankful to have this extended time with my younger daughter, who is five years old. Every family dinner is an admitted struggle as I try to ignore the poor eating habits of my older, 11-year-old son and witness the quick evaporation of my husband’s short reserve of patience remaining from his work day at the computer upstairs in our bedroom. But somehow, fifteen minutes later, I have survived most of the dinner, and am scraping up the last crumbs on my plate, which means my daughter has gotten out of her seat at the foot of the table and is hovering around my shoulder. “Sit down and let us eat,” my husband says, and I’m exasperated too. When was the last time I pushed back my chair from the table, careful to avoid crushing her toes, and she climbed onto my lap as my husband finshed his dinner?

I do remember that my younger daughter sat in my lap on the couch the other night as we watched the rare TV program that the kids and I could all tolerate. She sat straight up on my lap that night, pressing her backbone against my chest and her warm bare feet into my feet. Lately she has been curling her toes around my ankles as I read to her at night or on the rare day that we play a game together at the dining room table. I want to remember those toes, belonging to my confident girl of the strong legs and strong kicks who has doggedly learned to swim in a friend’s mom’s backyard pool this summer.

I also want to remember these oven-hot days of my sweet, older, 13-year-old daughter’s last summer before high school. Her management of the divvying up of two pizzas and gentle admonishment to me that I should “Please leave” the house with my husband for a planned dinner date. She kisses me goodnight every night, at least once, if not twice, in a ritual that I think she does somewhat obsessively on her pathway toward a hopefully sound sleep. When will be the last kiss good night? I know that when my kids are no longer under every waking foot, I will wish I could return to these marathon stay-at-home days, this time together, which although it is a marked struggle somehow is a much-appreciated gift.