The last times

I wonder how often we aware of the last time we do a particular thing, at the time we are doing it. Like the last time we talk to somebody. The last time we change a nappy. The last time we kiss a lover. The last time we hold hands with our dad.  

I was thinking about that tonight after getting frustrated with my kids for not getting out of the bath exactly when I wanted them to; for not being quiet at the moment I asked them to as they went to bed; for asking me to lay down with them until they fell asleep. 

As I was laying next to them as they fell asleep, my three year old was asking me to tell him about memories I had of his life. thinking about all that has passed in his three years reminded me that having the magic of my kids wanting me to hold their hand as they fall asleep will also pass. 

How to embody the magic of each moment when so much conspires to rob away the joy?

It hits me sometime on Sunday evening

I have my two sons for one week out of every two. I drop them off to their mum's house on Sunday afternoon. Sometime between dropping them off and going to sleep it hits me. The realisation of how much I love them. How much I miss them. How I have let them down in the week preceding, not given them all that they could have had from me, not being as present as I want to be with them.

Sometimes I start to feel this as soon as I drop them off, if not before. Sometimes it hits me as I am washing their sheets later in the evening. Sometimes it is when I am picking up one of the paintings or drawings they have made while they have been here.

It is like I can feel their little hearts breaking. I see their faces, and I want them to know that I love them so much. That I want to be with them all the time. That I am sorry. It is not their fault.

Perhaps they are okay. Perhaps I see myself in them. A little boy whose heart is breaking. Who feels all alone every second Sunday evening. Lonely, and alone.