“One day she won’t ask anymore, and I don’t want to have said ‘no’ the last time she did.”
That’s what I said when someone asked why I agreed to hold my 60-pound, 9-year-old daughter for a few minutes while waiting in line at Disneyland. Her legs were tired, and even though I knew it would be a little uncomfortable for my back, I didn’t hesitate.
It wasn’t for long—maybe ten minutes at most. And yes, it was heavier than it used to be. But none of that mattered. The temporary strain, the slight ache afterward, was nothing compared to her smile, her hug, and the simple joy of being present for her need in that moment. My heart was full, my mama instincts satisfied, because deep down, I knew we were inching closer to one of those bittersweet “last times.”
The “lasts” always hit hard when you look back.
You can’t see them coming. One day, they’re asking for something small, something seemingly inconvenient, and the next day, months have passed, a new stage has arrived, and they don’t ask for that thing again. Then you find yourself wishing you had savored one more moment, or at least remembered it as if it were a treasure.
To hold their hand by the crib as they drift off to sleep.
To wrap them in a towel and sing softly after a bath.
To climb up the slide with them, laughing all the way down.
To hear the words they once pronounced incorrectly now spoken perfectly.
To watch those tiny toddler voices turn into confident, little-girl ones seemingly overnight.
Even though my girls will grow and change despite my silent pleas for them to stay small, I can choose to hold on loosely. I can be present, noticing the moments, so I don’t miss a single “last” I have the chance to witness.
Even if I can’t carry her as long as I once could.
Even if it’s awkward, heavy, or inconvenient.
I’ll pause. I’ll take a breath. And I’ll say yes. As long as I possibly can.
