You just never know when the last time you will do something is.
When I was a child, I used to think about that when I heard a song on the radio – “When will be the last time I hear that before I die? Will I forget about that song, or will I remember it and just not hear it?”
Of course, that was well before any of us could have imagined that thanks to the internet, there are a myriad of ways to hear practically any song we choose, at any time.
Yet we still won’t particularly know the last time of hearing it.
Lately, due to several significant deaths recently of relatives and loved ones, the “lasts” have been running through my head: Last time I sat across from Aunt Marie at Thanksgiving, last time I laughed at Uncle Warren’s joke, last time I sat with Koonny Frog at church, last time I had a laugh with Mrs. Minter.
As I am writing this, my phone has received a text from my father. The message was lighthearted and unimportant, so I set the phone aside to respond later.
Then a chill came over me, considering what this column is about. I picked that phone up immediately and sent a cheerful reply.
I don’t ever want to be haunted by a last time my father texted and I did not respond with love and attention.
When you’re a parent, the lasts are particularly strong, and the list is long.
When is the last time you tucked your child into bed? Did you have any idea it would be the last?
When was the last time your child crawled into your bed at night for comfort?
Your child cuddled with you on your lap?
You held hands walking down the street?
It seems that one moment you are surrounded by a child – the child’s arms and legs are an octopus’s tentacles wrapping around you, or if not actually on you at the moment, then reaching out, waving, grasping. If the child is not on or all over you, he or she is calling for you, crying for you, wanting you.
Then, suddenly, the child is free-spirited, independent. You might even be afraid to reach out a hand because that child may pull away.
I do have the benefit of remembering the last bath, or at least I think I do.
Like many aspects of parenting, bathtime was simultaneously tedious and magically special. For about an hour, my knees and back would ache as I knelt on the floor, or crouched over from a stool.
We’d play endless games, the last ones being about mermaids. My doll was to walk on the edge of the bathtub and start chatting with her doll, who was swimming in the water. Then my doll would realize with a start that her doll was different. Her doll would explain that she was a mermaid. Our dolls would have a long conversation about mermaids, mine asking questions in utter fascination, hers responding with confidence and delight.
How many times could this same scenario take place?
Countless times!
Household chores would be all piled up, a nightmare to tackle after she had not only gone to bed but actually fallen asleep. As the bathtub scenarios would go on and on, I’d say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice, “Isn’t the water getting cold?”
“No, it isn’t!” she’d respond cheerfully.
I do remember telling myself to keep on going, carry it out as long as I possibly could that night, because – drumroll, please – one never knows when the last time would be, and these moments are special.
The next evening, she announced that she would take her bath by herself.
I was relieved that I would be able to get the dishes and laundry done earlier than usual.
And that was that.
