As a parent, when it happens, you are completely unaware. And after it happens, you will never reflect on it, because the fact that the moment even occurred will never cross your mind. But once you realize that it did happen, you’ll sit there scratching your head, until you realize, perhaps, it’s just something that you’ll never figure out.
Sounds like a riddle, but it’s not.
There came a moment in all of our lives when it was the last time we were picked up by our parents. The day came when they stopped reaching down to grab us by our underarms, and lift us up to giggle, coo, and rub noses. They stopped sweeping us up from around our waists to hold us in an arm hammock. The day came when it simply stopped happening. It wasn’t planned, nor was there any awareness that it was to be the last time. It just happened without anyone knowing. And for many, if not all, it was never noticed or even discussed. It was a sort of silent rite of passage in our childhood development. We were a little heavier, a little taller, a little more vocal, and preferred to do things a little more on our own. Our arms no longer reached out for our parents. We walked on our own throughout the house. Instead of carrying us, they called us to come to them. And if they didn’t call us, it was because we were leading the way.
Whether it’s you the child, or you the parent, I’m intrigued by how nearly impossible it is to trace our footsteps back to that moment, where the first signs of independence and separation began.
Our lives are full of many “last” moments. Some we are well aware of, like our last day at high school or college, our last day at a job, or the last time we wore braces. They are milestones in the chronology of our lives.
And yet, as traceable as those dates may be, I find it interesting how unnoticeable it is when a parent picks up his or her child for the last time. But not being aware of that moment occurring or having occurred is probably a good thing. Otherwise, to be cognizant of it might be a complete soul crusher….
* * *
It’s early morning as a sliver of magenta creeps upon the horizon outside the mother’s bedroom window. It’s been a long, restless night. It happened with her two older children, and now, she could sense that the inevitable was about to occur with her third child. She gets out of bed, and lugs her heavy feet through the house and into the kitchen, where she makes a cup of coffee. But she can only manage a couple of sips. The memory of yesterday clogs her mind and triggers pangs in her gut. Why must it be this way? Time was moving at a nice slow pace.
She hears the soft footsteps approaching the kitchen. There is a teetering about them, a newness of sorts. Her youngest child enters through the doorway, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes.
“Sweetie,” she says, “Why are you up? It’s very early.”
“Smell Mommy’s coffee. It wake me up.”
“I’m sorry. Let’s get you back to bed, okay?” She stands up and approaches him. “Let Mommy carry you back to bed.”
“It ok, Mommy. I go myself.”
This has come to an end all too quickly. Why?
There is no way of restraining her tears. There is no way of escaping this moment. Her little boy….a bit heavier, a bit taller, and a bit more vocal, turns and leaves the kitchen, leaving nothing but the sound of his footsteps trailing off in the distance.
She sits back down, and peers into the dark abyss of a 4-inch mug of coffee. This morning….it is a confirmation. Gone are the days, when, like yesterday, she picked him up for the very last time.
* * *
So, maybe it’s a fortunate thing that we aren’t aware of the last time we picked up our child. There seems to be a mechanism of some kind within us that’s designed to soften that blow, or rather, bypass it altogether. And I’m good with that. Because the alternative would be forever painful recalling those footsteps walking away for the very first time.
Copyright Ros Hill 2018
roshillwrites 