As a mom, I’ve always wished a postcard would arrive in the mail—one gently warning me that I was about to experience some ordinary moment with my kids for the very last time.
It would have been nice to know that on a crisp fall day in 1999, when I was rushing us out the door for a playdate but paused to feed my crying baby one last time, it would be the final moment I ever nursed him. After that day, he only wanted a bottle.
Or that Christmas in 2013 would be the very last time my American Girl Doll–obsessed daughter would ask for one, her excitement filling the room as if it would last forever.
Or that on a warm spring day in 2016, when my youngest son and I found ourselves with a little extra time and decided to stop at the playground, it would be the final day I’d ever have a child who wanted to go down the slide or swing on a swing.
These moments—small, ordinary, woven into the hours of my loud, busy mom life—never feel monumental while they’re happening. It’s only when they disappear that their weight settles in.
This morning, as I rushed around like a chicken without her head, my youngest casually announced that he only had 38 months of high school left.
“What?” I said, reaching for my coffee as he pulled on his sweatshirt and backpack.
“I only have 38 more months of high school.”
“Okay, it’s 6:30 in the morning. I can’t deal with this right now,” I replied.
Then, quieter: “Peter… is it really only 38 more months?”
“Yes.”
A wave of sadness washed over me, even as my mom brain kept ticking through my to-do list and silently complaining that his bus comes ridiculously early for a school day that doesn’t even start until 7:55.
Thirty-eight months? Is that really it? Thirty-eight months until my last child is done with high school?
Peter kept chatting about a movie we’d just seen and an upcoming test, completely unaware of the emotional math I was doing in my head.
“I’m going to wait for the bus outside,” he said.
“No, honey. It’s pitch black. Stay inside until you see it.”
He gave me that look—one I’ve seen from his older brother and sister, but one he’s only recently perfected. The look that says, You must be joking, mother.
“Hey, I worry about you,” I said softly. “Let me do that. You’re my last baby.”
“Okay, Mom,” he said, flashing me that smile—the one that makes me want to grab him and never let go. Of course, I don’t.
We see the bus lights turn the corner, and he bounds out the door.
“Be careful. It’s still dark. Don’t run,” I call after him.
“Yes, Mom.”
The bus stops.
“Have a great day. I love you,” I call out.
“I love you too, Mom,” he answers back.
The bus door opens, and just like that, he’s gone.
As I close the door, it hits me—my child just gave me the postcard I’ve always wished for.
I have 38 more months until he’s done with high school.
And it’s nowhere near enough.
