I’m So Glad That’s Over

Not long ago, an article was passed around social media like wildfire. It involved the idea of parents cherishing the last time they performed a task with their child, such as washing the child’s hair or cutting food into tiny bites, because children grow quickly and we don’t want to forget those milestones.

And I cherish the heck outta those milestones usually because I am so glad whatever we’d been doing for said children is finally over. I’m not exactly into lamenting the loss of those tasks completed for my children; nay, a thought bubble containing raised hands emojis may be seen above my head.

When my kids graduated from purees and breastfeeding to table foods and sippy cups, I thought, I’m so glad we’ve moved on, because those early stages were tough.

Two of the three are all-systems-go in the bathroom and I feel no sadness that I now have only one diapered child.

I’m lone wolf parenting tonight and just transferred the youngest to his crib as the middle finally stopped screaming because she hates to be alone (her sister was already asleep on the top bunk) and drifted off. She only woke her siblings twice each with her freak outs.

Someone possessing slightly more than my own number of years will take this opportunity to tell me I will miss nights like these.

False.

I will miss three kids under my roof, sleeping or awake. But I will not miss fighting an unruly octopus with cold feet who is itchy and thirsty and takes 8 hours each night to nod off and screams her lungs off if she has to try without us. When she calls me as an adult and says, “I can’t get my child to sleep!” I’ll say, “I don’t know, kid, but you were the WORST EVER at sleeping,” and then I will go to my retirement bed where no child will sleep with a limb over my face and be thankful, at least for that one moment, that my octopus is now traversing her own waters.

I look forward to leaving behind the high chairs, the car seats, trying to take all three of them anywhere and hoping I can track them and avoid being on the evening news. Everyone sleeping through the night. Zero knowledge of Mayor Goodway’s shenanigans and Paw Patrol’s need to rescue her purse chicken.

Sometimes an acquaintance will point out I am guilty of oversharing, overdocumenting, overphotographing all the moments of my children’s lives. But if I’m cleaning the closet and find an outgrown and beloved outfit my baby wore and feel the tears rise up, I ask myself: do I have a photo of this? Have I documented my memories associated with this precious time I feel slipping? If the answer is yes, and it always is, I vault that memory and move along. We came, we saw, we conquered, now we retire the onesie. What’s next?

Don’t get me wrong, I tend to enjoy many of these tasks as they are ongoing. I fought my own body for years in an effort to bring these crazies into the world and regret nothing. All the tears I shed were worth the outcome, but that doesn’t mean I’m not also thrilled the school kids dress themselves.

As the 1990’s philosophers of the band Semisonic said in their classic ‘Closing Time,” “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” (Just kidding, Seneca said that before Semisonic did). But I think maybe Seneca knew that when it comes to raising kids, focusing on the past is fruitless. There’s always something exciting and fun to look forward to, some new beginning springing forth from some other beginning’s end.

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