I ache at the thought of the lasts.
When will he stop coming into my bed at 2am?
When will be the last time I carry him?
I laid here and thought about Layne my 13 year old, and tried to pin point the last time I picked him up. When was it? I’m scouring my brain… he must have been 6 or 7.
What did he smell like?
Why didn’t I hold him just a little bit longer?
The tears sting my eyes.
Someone sent me this poem :
“There are no happy endings. Endings are the saddest part, So just give me a happy middle. And a very happy start.” ― Shel Silverstein
I know we are living our best days with our littles, things get so complicated as they get older. They will leave and start their new life, And I will be excited for them. And then I will sit in my chair and think of these days , when I woke to a stinky boy and watched him sleep and never wished a second away.
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