Dear Sunday Sparker,
he traffic was crazy.
I haven't checked my calendar for a while.
I did not know it was the last time.
Have you ever seen those posts that make you want to cry when they ask, "Did you know it was the last time, when you carried your kid up for the last time?" Heart-wrenching, isn’t it?
A recent conversation with my sister prompted this, and reading
this post. Also, that traffic day.
I went to pick up my 12-year-old from her extra French class in preparation for the DELF exam, which has been a weekly Thursday thing all semester. It was a Wednesday this time because Thursday was a national holiday, and people were so excited for the 3-day weekend and new salaries (I assume) that everyone went somewhere after work, and apparently, no one went home.
When I picked her up, I had so much stuff on the passenger seat, so I asked her to sit in the back. When I realized how horrible the traffic was, I decided to go to a drive-thru to get her an iced chocolate drink and a hot almond milk cappuccino for me to make the ride lighter (If you see me with iced coffee, ask me what went wrong in my life recently because that must be the only explanation).
We listened to songs on the radio as usual; however, after a nap at my monthly eyelashes appointment, which preceded that drive home with my daughter, my mind was fresh enough to listen to an audiobook with my earplugs, so I did. Our ride home took 80 minutes; it was exhausting for both of us. But I did not know it was the last one.
I knew her exam was coming soon, so I thought there was at least one more session left from which to pick her up. But nope, that was the last session.
Had I known, I would have made sure she sat beside me in the passenger seat and chose songs on my phone, not just the radio; I would not have listened to the audiobook, and maybe I would have struck up a nicer conversation, better than the usual questions, which have definitely improved over time (Gotta give myself some credit here). I would have paid more attention.
Not long ago, after a loud argument with my 10-year-old son, I asked him to come give me a hug to make up. I was sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard, and when he hugged me, he didn’t really hug; it felt like he was doing a push-up with both hands leaning on the mattress. So I asked him why he wasn't fully hugging me, and he said he feared he would crush me and wouldn’t let me breathe. I told him I could handle him, so he hugged me for real. But I couldn't stop thinking about this touching moment. He’s still not that big, mind you, he’s so lean, and his body frame is on the boney side; I mean SO MUSCULAR in case he reads this one day, but he grew up, and I can’t carry him like before.
I know I have plenty of last-time things to do with the kids, God willing, but my point is they are countable. They are limited.
For instance, how many days are left of school? Open your favorite calendar app and let’s count them together.
Lo and behold, my daughter has 18 school days left, and my son has 16. They may even be fewer with “study leaves” that are now part of the final exams schedule, which I didn't check.
How about you? And how will your kids remember those last days of the school year?
Will you be blasting songs on the way and taking turns listening to your favorite songs? Or will they remember you hurrying them to the car, getting mad because they didn’t hurry enough, and staying silent all the way to school, then murmuring "I love you" before they get out? Does that seem too detailed? I am not sure what you mean!
Making memories is an actionable thing you can take care of right away. You can stop for ice cream after school, play games on the way to school, answer conversation cards, or show them the crazy, funny part of you. At home, you can reward them for every homework assignment they complete or exam they study for in this last stretch of the school year. They are finite, and that is scary and a blessing; be mindful.
Oh, and yesterday, when my son was stuck in a tree and wanted to jump down? I told him I wanted to carry him down. So, at the age of ten years and four months, I carried my son in my arms for what might have been the last time.